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CLOTILDE 


OR, 

THE SECRET OF THEEE GENERATIONS. 

\ 


FROM THE FRENCH 


ALEXANDRE DE PONTMARTIN. 


BY 

KATE C. BARTON. 
% 



PHILADELPHIA 

J. M. STODDART & CO., 

734 SANSOM STREET. 

1871 . 


.. 



t. 




Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1871, by 
J. M. STODDART & CO., 

Iii the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. 


Wcdcott & Thomson, Stereotypers, Plnlada. 

U. COPY 

SUPPLIED FROM 
COPYRIGHT FILES 
JANUARY, 1§11. 



✓ ' *' 

* 4 , 

C ASTON OP 


• . A 

SHERMAN & CO* PHILADELPHIA. 



CONTENTS 


PAGB 

PROLOGUE 9 

PART FIRST. 

I.— THE RETURN ;. 47 

II.— THE THREE LOVES 70 

III. — WAITING 91 

IV. — THE PAVILION OF MIGNARD 114 

V.— THE WILL 136 

PART SECOND. 

I.— THIRTY YEARS LATER 155 

II.— REMINISCENCES 162 

III. — BETWEEN THE ACTS 217 

IV. — THE DRAMA. 230 

V. — INNOCENT BLOOD 248 

VI.— LA GLACIERE 263 

PART THIRD. 

I.— THE TWO ENVELOPES 2S6 

II.— IDYL 299 

III. — LA CHASSE AUX CHIMERES 309 

IV. — THE LAST WORD 344 

V.— LIGHT . ; 361 

EPILOGUE 394 







CLOTILDE 


PROLOGUE. 

O N a beautiful day in the autumn of 1846, a post-chaise, 
drawn by four horses, rolled along the ro^d from 
Montelimart to Avignon with such rapidity that it scarcely 
seemed to touch the ground. From time to time the occu- 
pant of the carriage protruded his head, covered with black 
hair, from the door, and in an agitated voice endeavored to 
urge to still greater rapidity this unusual speed. 

Wherever the road approached the Rhone and allowed 
him to perceive its various windings, he turned anxiously 
toward it, seeking to discern, in the spaces between the 
hills which stretch along the borders of the river or beyond 
the trees which overhang its waters, a column of floating 
smoke, the usual companion of a steamboat. Then, after 
having convinced himself that there was as yet no indica- 
tion of its approach, he heaved a profound sigh of relief. 

It was four in the afternoon. Until the last stage our 
friend had seen nothing, but on leaving the village of 
Sorgues, an elbow formed by the road as it followed the 
course of the Rhone allowed the impatient traveller to see 
in the distance the smoke he seemed to dread. The black 
pipe, followed by its gray cloud, soon appeared more dis- 
tinctly among the poplars and willows, looking like one of 
their own trunks in motion. There was no doubt that 

9 


10 


CLOTILDE. 


in another quarter of an hour the boat would arrive at 
Avignon. 

At this sight the occupant of the post-chaise uttered a 
cry of disappointment and anger. Then, as if desirous to 
run a race with this active antagonist, he leaned for the 
last time from the door, and said to the postilion, “Five 
louis for you if we arrive at the same time as that boat l” 
These words produced a magic effect. The breathless auto- 
maton and his thin quadrupeds displayed a vigor in 
traversing the few remaining miles which could not have 
been expected. Thoughtlessly, the traveller had just 
brought into competition the two great powers of modern 
society — steam and money. 

From that time the carriage rolled with such haste over 
the road which still intervened that it drew up triumph- 
antly on the quay of the Rhone at the same moment in 
which the steamboat reached its landing-place and drew 
to its moorings. This is the time when the porters, stage- 
drivers and hotel-boys standing on the wharf practice 
their proverbial extortions on travelers. There are ten 
minutes of noise and confusion, during which the passenger 
who remembers his Horace can do nothing better than imi- 
tate its justem et tenacem, and seat himself peaceably on his 
baggage to await the end of the squall. 

During these ten minutes our unknown friend, still in 
his carriage, which he had stopped a short distance from 
the boat, awakened his valet, who w T as sleeping heavily^ 
and said hurriedly to him, 

“Jacques, you know the Viscount Charles de Varni?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“ Does he know you ?” 

“ I scarcely think so.” 

“Very well. Mingle in the crowd which surrounds the 
boat ; in less than five minutes you will see M. de Varni 


PROLOGUE . 


11 


'eave it. His first words will be to inquire the way to 
M. Calixte Ermel, notary at Avignon ; try to prevent this 
name being heard ; before he has time to repeat it make 
yourself seen by him ; speak louder than any one else, and 
offer to guide him to M. Ermel’s house.” 

“ But I do not know it.” 

“ So much the better ; it will take you only longer to 
find it : on the way, moreover, propose to show him the 
curiosities of the place, the monuments, the museum — ” 

“ But if there are none ?” 

“There must be; however, if you are afraid of the role 
of cicerone, lead M. de Yarni through several streets, and 
then tell him that you have made a mistake — that it was not 
M. Calixte Ermel whom you knew, but another notary, whom 
you may name hap-hazard; it is important that I should 
have a half hour’s advantage of him, and see M. Ermel 
before Charles can reach there. Do you understand ?” 

The servant made a sign in the affirmative, and his mas- 
ter continued : 

“Any pretext will do, provided you consume time : that 
is the object; I leave you the choice of the means. The 
city is large, evening draws near, you have an imagination. 
I have confidence in you, and merely tell you to meet me in 
an hour at the Hotel d’ Europe, whence we will depart im- 
mediately. Not a word now, for the passengers are begin- 
ning to scatter.” Then turning to the postilion, who was 
still in the saddle, and showing him the gate called La 
Ligne, 

“Enter by this gate,” said he; “follow the interior of 
the ramparts, and take me to M. Calixte Ermel, notary, 
Bonasterie St.” 

The postilion obeyed ; the toll-gatherers, who reverence a 
post-chaise, allowed the carriage tti pass without a word. 
Some seconds later it stopped in a quiet street before a 


12 


CLOTILDE. 


handsome house, the principal door of which was sur- 
mounted by a tablet of gray marble, whereon was printed 
in large letters, Calixte Ermel, Notary. Bills posted 
on the door and front of the house, advertising sales, auc- 
tions and bankruptcies, further announced his profession. 

The stranger did not stop to examine these details. He 
hastily paid the postilion, ordered him to drive to the Hotel 
d’Europe, entered the house, inquired for the notary, and 
mounted the stairs four steps at a time. 

He opened a door on the first floor, and entered a room 
in which time had destroyed the original colors of the 
hangings and lace. He crossed this office, a large gloomy 
room, where two or three clerks were surreptitiously reading 
the “Count of Monte Christo,” concealing the book behind 
a pile of papers, and then stepped over the threshold of 
the room where the notary was sitting alone. 

Calixte Ermel was about fifty-five years of age, but he 
looked almost seventy, his countenance was so careworn, his 
cheeks so wrinkled and his hair so gray. This appearance 
of premature age gave him an air of sadness rare in men 
of his calling. He was dressed in a full suit of black, 
which seemed the habiliments of mourning rather than a 
badge of his profession. On scanning his face more atten- 
tively a trace of youth might still be found in h'is cheerful 
expression and the dimples around his mouth, and it was 
easy to see that grief and care had aged him, but that he 
was still young in heart and mind. 

His room was like all the notaries’ offices in the country. 
Its occupant was seated in a leathern arm-chair before a large 
table covered with papers. On each side of the chimney, 
to which his back was turned, were walnut cases of equal 
size, containing pigeon-holes, painted green, and each fur- 
nished with a c&pper ring, variously marked mortgages, 
sales, leases, wills, marriage contracts, etc. A bookcase 


PROLOGUE. 


13 


opposite, which corresponded with these desks, was filled with 
massive folios white with dust. The only object calculated 
to attract attention was a black silk curtain, which covered 
nearly the whole side of the wall opposite the window, and 
seemed to conceal a piece of furniture or some valuable 
painting. 

On entering the office of the notary the stranger took off 
his travelling-cap and threw back his overcoat, and he then 
appeared a man of about thirty or thirty-five years of age, 
handsome, but with something sinister about his face. His 
brown eyes, swarthy complexion and black hair would per- 
haps have accorded better with the cape of a Corsican 
fisher than with the foppish costume he wore. The expres- 
sion of his face was manly, almost stern, and there was 
something frightful in his smile, although it displayed a set 
of the whitest teeth under red and rather sensual lips. 

The moment he appeared before M. Ermel the latter 
regarded him with an anxious attention which seemed act- 
ually a presentiment. Evidently, at the sight of the new- 
comer long-buried and painful recollections wer<3 gradually 
awakening within him, but he was not allowed time to re- 
call them. 

“ Master Calixte Ermel,” said the stranger, hastily, “ I 
am Simon d’Arrioules. You knew my father : do you re- 
member him ?” 

The notary trembled ; his pale face became suddenly suf- 
fused with crimson, which as quickly faded, leaving an ex- 
pression of terror. 

“ Simon d’Arrioules ! you ! ” exclaimed he in a tremulous 
voice ; then added, “ And may I ask to what I owe the honor 
of seeing you here ?” 

“ Oh ! can you not guess ?” 

“Not yet,” replied M. Ermel, who feigned ignorance, 
although he really knew the caus'e of his guest’s appearance. 

2 


14 


CL 0 TILDE. 


“ What ! you see in your house a man named D’ Arrioules, 
and you do not know that another man, named Yarni, must 
be near ! Ah, M. Ermel, I believed you less forgetful or 
more perspicacious !” 

“ It is then true !” murmured the distressed notary. 

“ Yes/’ replied Simon ; “in half an hour, perhaps less, 
Charles de Yarni will be with you, in the place I now 
occupy.” 

“ And what will he do ?” 

“You are his notary, you are his friend ; he comes to ask 
advice and money.” 

“ But a long time has passed since M. de Yarni has had 
his foot in this city; he no longer has acquaintances here.; 
his funds, which he left in my hands, I had deposited in 
Florence, Rome, Switzerland, Madrid — wherever he was led 
by his errant fancy and artistic tastes, which appeared to 
guard him from his doom. I thought — I hoped never to 
see him again ! ” 

“Yes, but there came a time when I recalled to my 
mind that* I had a task to accomplish, and knew there was 
here a man to assist me : that man is yourself ; the time 
is the present ! ” 

“ The money — the advice then ?” 

“Oh, M. Ermel! between partners the cards are all 
open, and I pretend to hide nothing from you : the money 
must be confided to me, whom he believes his best friend ; 
he will seek counsel as to whether he shall marry a low 
girl whom he thinks my sister. In plain language, the 
money is for his ruin, the advice for his misery.” 

“But how have matters reached this point?” asked the 
notary, in surprise mingled with fear. 

“ Thus : you remember the death of the Yiscount de 
Yarni, Charles’ father?” 

“Do I remember it!” exclaimed M. Ermel, his pallor 


PROLOGUE. 


15 


increasing. “Do I remember that event which has left 
such a sad and ineffaceable impression on my life ? Ah, 
twenty-five years have passed since then, and it still seems 
but like yesterday. M. de Yarni was then living in the 
castle of Maleraygues, in Cevennes; all the neighboring 
gentry were to meet at a great fox-chase, and as a friend of 
the family, I was invited too. I was preparing to go that 
very evening to Maleraygues, and I was busy with my pre- 
parations in the room we are now in, when — ” 

“When a man with an energetic and sombre counte- 
nance entered,” interrupted Simon, “ and said to you, ‘ I am 
Jerome d’Arrioules; you must present me to M. de Yarni, 
and I will join in the chase/ ” 

“ Ah ! just so,” stammered the notary, greatly moved, 
and seeming to evoke all the phantoms of the past. “ I 
then felt that Jerome had some evil design. Alas ! did I not 
know with what an inheritance of hatred and vengeance 
we were both burdened ? I plead, I supplicated, I fell on 
my knees to him : he was inflexible ; and to my questions, 
as to my prayers, he answered only the words, ‘You must 
introduce me at Maleraygues ; I command you in the name 
of the Yiscountess Clotilde de Yarni !’ Then I tried to 
point out to Jerome all there was monstrous and criminal 
in this murderous succession, this bloody compact, which 
after so many tears, so much bloodshed, still bound us. I 
told him that generations and years had passed since that 
frightful period ; that the crimes which we were to avenge 
had been already expiated ; that we ought now to leave in 
reconciliation and forgetfulness the three families bound by 
an infernal oath, the Yarnis to be victims, the D’Arri- 
oules to be tormentors, and the Ermels to be instruments. 
I told him all this with sobs and supplications. I besought 
hfm in the name of our common humanity to forgive the 
past. I plead with him as we plead with the man who 


16 


CLOTILDE. 


holds our life or death in his power; for one instant I 
thought myself saved — ” 

“But,” again interrupted Simon d’Arrioules, “he then 
took you by the arm, as I now do, and leading you, as I do, 
toward this black curtain, he drew the silken cord, and the 
curtain raising, as at this moment, exposed to view the por- 
trait of Clotilde de Varni.” 

Whilst speaking, M. d’Arrioules, suiting the action to the 
words, had drawn the notary toward the large curtain which 
covered the end of the room, and raised it with violence : 
both trembled at the sight of the object before them. 

It was a full-length, life-sized portrait of a female of 
about twenty years of age, dressed in the style of the eigh- 
teenth century. A slight touch of powder on her light 
brown hair subdued the dazzling whiteness of her skin and 
the incomparable beauty of her neck and bosom. Perhaps 
the complexion might have been taxed with a slight pallor, 
and the perfect oval of the face with being a degree too 
thm, but these almost imperceptible defects seemed rather 
signs of a hidden grief than natural imperfections, and lent 
a sort of mysterious fascination to her ideal beauty. Her 
dark blue eyes, of that changing azure whose liquid and 
transparent tint reveals such depth of character and pas- 
sion, were so striking in expression that they riveted the 
gaze. It was one of those portraits which, whether by 
chance or the intention of the painter, seemed to follow you 
with its eyes at whatever point of sight you placed yourself. 
This illusion gave this exquisite figure something annoying 
yet irresistible. 

The frame had a coat of arms on it, and bore the follow- 
ing date : 

HYfiEES, OCTOBER 10, 1756. 

Simon d’Arrioules and M. Ermel remained silent a mo- 


PROLOGUE. 


17 


ment before this magnificent painting; then Simon, turn- 
ing to the notary, said to him, in a determined manner 
which gave a significance to each word, 

“It is she ! Yes, it is thus that my grandfather saw her, 
thus that my father pictured her to me, thus that I have 
dreamed of her; it is the same Clotilde de Varni whose 
unsatisfied spirit still haunts that cursed family ! I knew 
that this portrait was here ; I knew that her terrible will 
was written in her burning gaze, in this indelible date ; I 
knew that by r invoking this image, as my father had done, 
I would make you bow your head and obey my orders.” 

“Ah! you are pitiless as Jerome was,” replied M. Calixte 
Ermel — “ pitiless to the son, as he was to the father. You 
are right ; he finally overcame my resistance, and the fol- 
lowing day — Oh ! it is frightful ! On merely seeing that 
event in my thoughts I again feel myself seized with the 
vertigo which then attacked me, and caused me to pass so 
many feverish days and sleepless nights !” 

“ Yes, the following day,” said Simon, insensible to his 
emotion, “you presented my father to the Viscount de 
Varni as one of your friends, a jovial companion and an 
intrepid hunter. He was received, entertained at Maleray- 
gues, and three days after, at the great hunt which took 
place at the Combes d’Escanourges, a shot fired from 
behind an oak thicket took effect in the viscount’s temple, 
and killed him instantly. To his widow, to the other hunt- 
ers — in fact, to the world — this death was the result of im- 
prudence. You alone recognized in it the hand of the guest 
you had introduced. Am I not right? Does my memory 
play me false?” 

“No! your memory is as faithful as your hatred,” replied 
the notary, with sombre irony. “ But do you know all that 
followed that fatal day ? The widow of the Viscount de 
Varni became insane with grief, and died at the expiration 
2 * B 


18 


CLOTILDE. 


of a few months. Charles, her only son, the same whom 
you now pursue, was then a child of five or six years of 
age. An orphan, the last of a family on which misery and 
death have never wearied of exercising their power, he was 
confided to my care. I became his tutor. In undertaking 
the management of his fortune, I took measures to exile 
this child from a country where he was doomed alike by 
past and future. I sold all his estates and invested the 
proceeds, which have increased under my care. It was my 
wish that Charles should have here neither tie nor interest, 
nor a foot of ground. As soon as his education was com- 
pleted I inspired him with a taste for travelling, and, in spite 
of my affection for him, I was never so happy as when moun- 
tains and seas separated us. Ah ! to save this young man 
was thenceforth my only task, my one hope on earth! 
Listen ! I did ■ yet more. I loved and was beloved by a 
young girl beautiful and pure as an angel. I was accepted 
by her parents; we were on the eve of our betrothal; the 
union promised me nothing but happiness. But on my 
return from Maleraygues, stained with the blood which, 
though not shed by myself, I felt I was in some sort respon- 
sible for, I judged and condemned myself. I felt that the 
joys of love, the pleasure of the domestic fireside, were not 
made for a man forced to bequeath such a frightful heri- 
» tage ; and if I was unable to escape my destiny, it should 
at least die with me. I hoped that by leading a lonely life, 
by allowing my name to perish, I should turn the fatality 
from Charles. I was determined to dispute with the future 
the last act of this long drama. I broke my engagement 
on some trifling pretext. I saw the tears of my betrothed 
without growing pale ; I closed my heart as we close the 
grave with the stone. At thirty I was an old man, in 
those few short days I felt twenty years pass over me. My 
hair became gray, my cheeks sunken, my body bent. I 


PROLOGUE. 


19 


put on this mourning, which I have never laid aside. It 
seemed to me that I had but a few steps more to take before 
leaving this world, in which I could only pray, weep and 
suffer. Ah ! who could have foretold that God would per- 
mit me to live only that my sacrifice might be useless ? who 
could have foreseen that this horrible task, of . which I 
wished to be the last inheritor, would again fall to me ? — to 
me who could not die !” 

“ Well, I am less generous than you,” replied Simon. 

“ This heritage of vengeance has had a very different effect 
on me. In my life there has passed one day, one hour, 
which has swallowed and absorbed all the rest. Ten years 
have gone by since that day, and each incident, every detail, 
every word, is still graven on my memory. It was at 
Baveno, on the banks of Lake Major. My father had 
retired there after the hunting expedition at Maleraygues, 
and never wished to return to France. Feeling that his 
end was approaching, he called me to his bedside and 
related this history to me. ‘Simon/ added he, ‘you will 
soon be the only possessor of this secret, the only remain- 
ing person charged with this mission. Do not fail, you 
will need the energy of two, for M. Ermel has allowed 
himself to be overcome by a. foolish pity, and when the 
time comes for you to claim his assistance you will find 
rather an opponent than an aid in him. It matters not; # 
our work must be accomplished, and this third generation 
dealt with as the two others have been. This fidelity to 
our oath is henceforth the only honor of our family. Claude 
d’Arrioules, my father, kept the promise he made to Mad- 
ame de Varni on her deathbed. I have kept mine, given 
to my father ; it is now your turn, my son. Swear to me 
that you will be as inexorable as we have been/ I swore, 
and at that moment a new spirit seemed to take possession 
of me, and urge me to the accomplishment of my oath. It 


20 


CLOTILDE. 


was the robe of Nessus. It suddenly bound my shoulders, 
smothering, burning and consuming all of youth, kindness 
and compassion still left me. When I had closed my father’s 
eyes and followed his remains to the village cemetery, I arose 
from the side of his grave utterly changed. I was so identified 
with the part I had to play that I could scarcely tell whether 
I would obey the voice of the past, or gratify my own hatred. 
I was alone in the world, for my mother had been dead for 
years ; for, after all,” continued Simon, bitterly, “ the evil 
we do does not spare us, and we are like the blade which 
breaks and dulls itself in cutting. I was now only bound 
to life by the mysterious compact to which I had pledged 
myself. I immediately applied myself to the work, and 
chance aided me. One day, while looking over the register 
of the only inn in Baveno, I read the name of Charles de 
Varni among the arrivals of the preceding evening. He 
was then beginning his travels, and in the very outset his 
evil genius threw him in my way. The next day we met 
on the lake. I represented myself to Charles as a French- 
man, fond of travelling like himself, and happy to find a 
fellow-countryman. You know how quickly you become 
acquainted on such occasions. A few days later we made 
arrangements to travel over Italy together. Both isolated, 
both without family, the similarity of our positions increased 
* our intimacy. Moreover, the better to please M. de Yarni, 
I concealed my rough nature ; I adopted his tastes ; I fell 
into his habits, and I chose the subjects of conversation he 
preferred. At the expiration of a month we were insepa- 
rable ; after that we rarely lost sight of each other, and I 
repeat it, he now thinks me his best friend.” 

“But why this feint of friendship?” exclaimed Calixte 
Ermel. 

“ Because I wish to observe him, to make myself thor- 
oughly acquainted with him, to know where to strike that 


PROLOGUE. 


21 


I might strike more effectually. Can you think that my 
hatred calls for nothing more than the blood of Charles de^ 
Varni? Ah, were I so easily satisfied, I could soon have 
put an end to him ! In our excursions across the Alps, on 
the seashore, in the depths of the Calabrian forests, what 
trace would have remained of my crime? Who would have 
accused or suspected me ? All could have been ended with 
a shot or the blow of a dagger. My father decided on that 
means for want of better, but it seemed to me that the spirit 
of Clotilde de Varni demanded of me a more exquisite, a 
more refined revenge. To gradually prepare his unhap- 
piness, to study his character in order to find a weapon in 
each foible or each good quality, to make all that makes 
life desirable — hope, friendship, love — smile upon him, then 
of all these elements of happiness to bring about some ter- 
rible disaster, — this was what I desired.” 

‘‘Well,” murmured the notary, fascinated in spite of 
himself, “what have you learned in these ten yea&s of 
intimacy with the man you design for your victim ?” 

“Now, I know him better than he knows himself,” re- 
plied Simon. “ The dreamer, the artist and the nobleman are 
combined in him ; he is extravagant, romantic and proud ; 
no greater misery can exist for him than to be betrayed in 
friendship and love, particularly if the former ruins him 
and the latter renders him ridiculous. Now, in fifteen days 
he will be both ruined and ridiculous.” 

“How so?” 

“Time presses,” answered M. d’Arrioules, looking at 
his watch ; “ Charles has already had time to be here, and 
he must not meet me, he must not know that I have been 
here.” 

“Be easy,” said M. Ermel, sadly; “if any person 
knocked at the door, I would let you out into my garden, 
which opens into a quiet alley.” 


22 


CLOTILDE. 


“Well, then, I will continue. Two years since, while 
Charles was in the East, I went to the springs of Aix. 
There was nothing talked of at the time of my arrival but 
the humiliation which had just been inflicted on a young 
woman of notorious character, named Esther Goujon. This 
girl, beautiful as an angel and wicked as a demon, had had 
the audacity to appear two successive days among the guests 
in the public parlor dressed in a degree of luxury amount- 
ing to impertinence. She had been publicly driven out, 
and, to render her expulsion even more disgraceful, the 
women, merciless as they always are, had pretended to burn 
sandal-wood in her path, saying aloud that they wished to 
purify the air contaminated by this beautiful sinner. I 
knew that Esther had fled to Chambery ; I followed her 
there. No viper turning under the foot which crushed it 
ever displayed more anger and venom ! ‘ Do you wish,’ said 

I, ‘ to repay to the world which outrages you blow for blow, 
affront for affront?’ ‘Yes,’ she answered, writhing with 
rage; ‘could I but avenge myself, could I but injure some 
one — ’ and she tore the lace of her handkerchief to shreds in 
her clenched hands. ‘ Will you, then, ally yourself with me, 
as the accomplice of a criminal, as the slave of a master ?’ 
‘ Yes.’ ‘ Will you assist me in the execution of a project 
which will place the fortune and fate of a man at your 
mercy ?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘ Are you capable of everything to attain 
this end ?’ ‘ Of everything.’ ‘ Even of feigning for some 

time to be a virtuous girl ?’ ‘ If necessary, I will try,’ said 

she, with a diabolical smile parting her pale lips. Such 
were the preliminaries of our compact : it was immediately 
concluded. I installed Esther in one of those delightful 
chalets which surround Interlaken. I made her wear 
mourning, and passed her as my sister, the widow of a 
Sicilian nobleman, the Marquis Belperani. As soon as our 
mutual position was well established in the country, I went 


PROLOGUE. 


23 


to meet Charles de Varni, who was then returning by way 
of Venice. The first embraces over, I said to him in a tone 
of affectionate confidence, ‘Charles, I have a secret to 
reveal which my friendship has hitherto concealed from 
you: I have a sister.’ ‘And why have you left me igno- 
rant of it ?’ asked he, in surprise. ‘ Because my sister was 
married to an old man as jealous as Othello, and I dreaded 
what must have followed had I presented you to my dear Oc- 
tavia.’ ‘ What is that ?’ ‘ She was forty years younger than 
her husband. You are romantic ; our intimacy would have 
authorized you to become her escort ; that would have been 
a source of danger and grief to you both.’ ‘And now?’ 

‘ Now, this danger no longer exists ; her old husband, the 
Marquis Belperani, died in Sicily two months ago. Octavia 
is free.’ ‘Your sister is very beautiful?’ asked Charles, 
whose imagination was already excited. ‘ You will see 
her,’ I replied, coldly.” 

“Ah, I begin to understand,” interrupted the notary, 
who listened to Simon’s recital as if the victim of a fright- 
ful dream. 

“Patience! I shall soon have finished,” continued M. 
d’Arrioules. “ A few 7 weeks later we returned to Interlaken, 
and I presented the Viscount de Varni, my best friend, to 
the pretended Marquise de Belperani. I had already given 
Esther Goujon a lesson, but wdiat is our miserable know- 
ledge compared to the genius of these wonderful women ? 
Those few weeks had sufficed to metamorphose Esther com- 
pletely. Pale, sad, veiled in mourning habiliments, she 
w r as so poetical, so beautiful, that I, whose heart is triply 
shielded, I sometimes trembled at her side. As for Charles, 
he was soon deeply in love : I pretended not to notice it ; 
and I had then but to admire the infernal art v 7 ith which 
Esther played her part. By turns coquettish or reserved, 
submissive or haughty, sad or lively, irresistible in her 


24 


CLO TILDE. 


gayety as in her reserve, she took a year to complete her 
task, leading her lover through every phase of anxiety 
and hope, always repulsing but never discouraging him. 
This by-play brought us up to this summer. At last, one 
evening, after a long sentimental conversation, during which 
Esther had displayed more charms than would have turned 
the head of any reasonable man, Charles de Varni, taking 
me aside, confided to me that he loved my sister, and that 
he would be the happiest of men if he could obtain her hand. 
‘ I know it,’ I replied, with the air of a Grand Master Tem- 
plar ; ‘ if I have not proposed this alliance before you gave 
me your confidence, it is because there is an obstacle to it : 
Octavia is poor — her old husband left'her nothing — I am 
myself without fortune, and — ’ ‘That is of no conse- 
quence! I am rich, and if I owe you the happiness I 
dream of, I shall scarcely think myself out of debt in shar- 
ing with you.’ ‘The language of romance,’ I replied, 
gravely. ‘ But there is a way of arranging it all. I have 
had offered to me the direction of a new railroad to be laid 
from Palermo to Messina; I only need the necessary funds. 
In associating with me you will make my fortune and 
double your own, for I know for a certainty that the profits 
will be two to one in this undertaking !’ ‘ From this mo- 

ment all that I possess is yours,’ cried Charles, with the 
enthusiasm of a lover, ‘ and it only remains to obtain the 
consent of your divine sister.’ ‘Oh, that is your affair, my 
friend,’ I replied, with a smile far from discouraging. In 
fact, Charles had a decisive conversation with the pretended 
Marquise de Belperani, and after having once more raised 
him from despair to serenity, having intoxicated him' with 
a series of refusals, hesitations, reserves and avowals, she 
dropped from her charming lips that indefinable syllable 
which means yes for lovers. The next day, Charles, like 
all men of vivid imaginations, seemed preoccupied in the 


PROLOGUE. 


25 


midst of his ecstasies and happiness. I asked him the 
cause. ‘ It is,’ he said, ‘ that I have in France an old friend, 
a guardian, whom I have not seen ‘for years, and whom I 
would like to see before I bind myself for ever.’ ‘ Nothing 
more natural ; and what is your friend’s name ?’ ‘ Master 

Calixte Ermel, notary, at Avignon. Isolated, having 
scarcely known my parents, I have set all my affections on 
M. Ermel, and I should blame myself if I failed to submit 
for his approval the project which will decide my destiny. 
Moreover, my fortune, my family titles, my papers, are in 
his hands ; in every way an interview with him seems indis- 
pensable to me.’ ‘Well, my friend, from here to Geneva is 
but thirty-six hours’ journey, from Geneva to Lyons a night, 
from Lyons to Avignon one day ; in a very short time, if 
you wish, you can see M. Ermel.’ ‘ But before you I will be 
there — before you ,’ I added to myself, like the Bertram of 
Meyerbeer. It was all arranged. Charles de Varni left 
Interlaken, and one hour later I started post-haste, paying 
double and triple to be in Avignon before him, for I had 
never forgotten my father’s dying words, ‘Do not trust 
Calixte Ermel ; he has yielded to a foolish pity.’ ” 

“ Then you were but little ahead of him ?” 

“ So little that I just escaped being later than he. Hap- 
pily, at Geneva, where I lost two hours owing to an acci- 
dent which befel my carriage, I met an old valet, who left 
my service several years since, whom M. de Varni had 
doubtless forgotten. I re-engaged him, thinking he might 
be useful to me. I was not mistaken. The fellow is smart. 
I charged him to meet M. de Varni on the arrival of the 
steamboat, and to make him lose half an hour under some 
pretext, to give me time to speak to you. I do not know 
what means he has found; but as their walk cannot be 
everlasting, I must leave you, M. Ermel, and I repeat, 
Charles de Varni will come and say to you, ‘ Will you give 
3 


26 


CLOTILDE. 


me my fortune, that I may confide it to M. d’Arrioules’ 
keeping?’ Ycu must say, 4 It is here.’ He will add, 
4 Shall I marry the Marquise Octavia Belperani?’ You 
must answer, ‘Marry her.’ ” 

“Never! never!” exclaimed the notary, making a last 
effort. 

44 You will then be perjured?” asked Simon, in a ter- 
rible voice. “You dare to disobey the commands of the 
Viscountess Clotilde de Varni.?” 

As he uttered these words, the last rays of the sun setting 
amid the rosy clouds in the west, glancing across the window- 
curtains, lightened with a crimson glow the portrait of 
Madame de Varni. Her inexorable eyes, and the date in- 
scribed in black letters on the gilt frame, glistened before 
the notary, as if to accuse him of weakness and forgetful- 
ness. Standing near him, like an evil spirit, M. d’Arrioules 
murmured in his ear, “Hyeres, October 10, 1756.” 

“October 10, 1756!” suddenly exclaimed M. Ermel, as 
if awakening from a dream. “October 10! — and to-day 
is the 25th of September, 1846 ! Yes, Friday, September 
the 25th !” repeated he, looking at a calendar fastened by a 
pin on the corner of the chimney. 

44 Well ?” interrupted Simon, frowning. 

“Well, in fifteen days the fatal period will expire; for 
you, who know all,” continued M. Ermel, with energy, 44 do 
you not know that Madame de Varni, wishing her ven- 
geance to be wreaked on three generations, and calculating 
on probabilities, fixed ninety years as the extent of its 
duration? Yes, on the 10th of October of this year ter- 
minates this fearful compact. On the 10th of October 
Charles de Varni will be saved.” 

44 But fifteen days yet remain,” replied M. d’Arrioules, 
still inflexible. 44 It is more than is required to complete 
our work. Fifteen days yet remain, and to-morrow M. de 


PROLOGUE. 


27 


Varni’s money can be paid over to him, and next Friday 
he can be formally betrothed to Esther Goujon. Did you 
suppose I had forgotten that date, and failed to take mea- 
sures accordingly? Do you suppose that in hastening a 
denouement so slowly planned I was not guided by a voice 
always whispering to me, ‘Hasten, hasten! Clotilde de 
Varni must be obeyed ; there is not an instant to lose !’ ” 

“ Oh mercy ! pity !” 

“No, no pity! no mercy! Did the Viscount de Varni, 
the husband of Clotilde, who died of grief — did he show her 
pity? Did he show mercy to Gaston de Tervaz ?” 

“ Ah ! there are but fifteen days,” rejoined the notary, 
his hands clasped. “ To strike Charles de Varni now, 
when so short a time would suffice to avert this misery, and 
we should be released from our task — w T ould it not be a 
refinement of cruelty ? Ah ! if she could speak, she would 
tell you that she .is sufficiently avenged, and now at last 
forgives.” 

At this moment a rap was heard on the door of the 
house. “Here is Charles de Varni,” said'M. d’Arrioules, 
hastily; “ I must leave before he sees me.” 

M. Ermel quickly opened a little door concealed in the 
wall, and showed Simon a private stairway leading to the 
garden ; then calling an old servant, who was sweeping out 
the alley, “Antoine,” he said, “show this gentleman out 
by the Rue du Vice-Legat.” 

Before leaving, M. d’Arrioules, turning to the notary 
once more, and pointing to the portrait, said in a haughty 
tone, “As my father, Jerome d’Arrioules, commanded you, 
twenty-five years ago, I now command you to be faithful 
to our oath. Adieu, M. Ermel ; we shall never meet again 
in this world.” 

M. Ermel bowed his head, and Simon disappeared. All 
this had passed more quickly than thought. The closing 


28 


CLOTILDE. 


of a door was heard, then the footfalls of some one mount- 
ing the stairs. 

“It is Charles! it is the unfortunate child!” stam- 
mered the notary ; and overcome with emotion and fatigue, 
he sank on his lounge, covering his face with his hands. 

It was. not Charles; it was one of M. Ermel’s oldest 
friends, M. Denis Beaucanteuil, a public commissioner. 

An intimacy had long existed between them in spite of 
the dissimilarity of their political sentiments. M. Ermel 
was a legitimate, M. Beaucanteuil was conservative, to 
adopt the expressions still in use in 1846. 

They differed no less in person than in opinions. M. 
Ermel’s pale face and aristocratic appearance, his air of 
melancholy and refinement, his mourning garments, were 
in strong contrast with the embonpoint, the rosy cheeks 
and the foppish dress of his friend. But his heated face 
now wore an expression of solemnity and mystery which 
would not have escaped M. Ermel had he been less pre- 
occupied. He would have remarked, too, the unusual hour 
chosen by M. Beaucanteuil for his visit, for in order to see 
him he must have postponed his dinner. But he was so 
overcome by the grief and vexation resulting from the 
visit of M. d’Arrioules that he noticed nothing. 

■“My dear Ermel,” said M. Beaucanteuil, majestically, 
“ allow me to remind you of what I have already told you 
a hundred times. You will get yourself into some scrape 
with those devilish political ideas of yours.” 

“ What do you mean ?” 

“Oh, you understand me.” 

“ That may be, but speak as if I did not.” 

“ Come, Ermel, no diplomacy between us ; you are not 
conversing with the public functionary, but with your 
friend. Will you deny that some person was expected by 
to-day’s steamboat who was in search of you, claims ac- 


PROLOGUE. 


29 


quaintance with you, and sought to conceal from us his 
true name and rank, but failed to deceive either the mayor 
or myself?” 

“And who is this person?” inquired the notary, seeking 
the clue to the enigma. 

“ He pretends to call himself the Viscount Charles de 
Varni. But I, Denis Beaucanteuil, commissioner and com- 
mon counsellor, I suspect, or rather I feel sure, that he is an 
officer or a Spanish general who wishes to pass the frontier 
to rejoin the Count de Montemolin. I am through.” 

The two friends regarded each other a moment in silence; 
spite of his affliction and anguish, M. Ermel was scarcely 
able to resist a strong desire to laugh. 

“ First,” resumed M. Beaucanteuil, in a magisterial tone, 
“ he pretends to call himself the Viscount Charles de Varni. 
There was an ancient family of that name to whom you 
were much attached, I believe, but was not the Viscount 
de Varni shot while hunting many years since ? and have 
you not often told me that his only son had left the country 
with the determination never to return ?” 

“ It is true.” 

“This is the first trouble, but not the only one. The 
traveller in question insisted that he came to see you. Then 
see what a suspicious circumstance ! — he did not know where 
you lived. This is not all yet ; a man who met him when 
leaving the steamboat, and, under pretext of bringing him 
to your house, took him to the mayor’s, whispered to me 
on entering, ‘Do not trust this man; ask for his passport,’ 
and immediately disappeared.” 

“ Then ?” interrupted the notary, who was now thoroughly 
interested. 

“Then, after our first questions, which the stranger an- 
swered like a guilty man — that is, angrily — we asked for his 
passport ; he acted as is usual in such cases — felt in all his 


30 


CLOTILDE. 


pockets, rushed about, fell into a rage, cried for the thief! 
Sdeath ! You may be sure this farce, which we understood, 
made little impression on us.” 

“ So, then,” said M. Ermel, in a voice trembling, with 
emotion, “the man who accompanied the Viscount — the 
would-be Viscount Charles de Varni — is the person who 
advised you to ask for his passport, and to retain him on 
suspicion ?” 

“ Exactly.” 

Here M. Ermel, had he been a dramatic personage, would 
have exclaimed, “Thank God!” He was content, however, 
to return mental thanks to that Providence which permit- 
ted the servant employed by Simon d’Arrioules to become 
unintentionally the saviour of Charles de Varni. From 
this moment the conversation flowed easily ; the notary led 
whilst seeming to follow. 

“And what conclusion do you draw from all this?” he 
asked of M. Beaucanteuil as coolly as he could. 

“You shall see. We administrators, whose duty it is to 
watch over the safety of the nation, are obliged to be on 
the alert. That the Count de Montemolin has left France 
is a notorious fact; the Spanish officers devoted to his 
cause are now in the country, and we know several are 
expected to pass through Avignon about this time. You, 
being incorrigible, went last year to Bourges, where you 
saw the count and his little court. No doubt you there 
became acquainted with the person who arrived to-day. 
He has since corresponded with you, informed you of his 
plans of flight, and you gave him the name of Varni as a 
passport in case of arrest. The rest explains itself: our 
friend arrives to-day by the steamboat, counting on your 
devotion to procure him money and the necessary papers, 
and to assist him to escape from here to Marseilles or 
Bayonne; on leaving the boat he was met by an officer, 


PROLOGUE. 


31 


an agent of the police in disguise, who has probably fol- 
lowed him from Lyons, and brings him to us ; so instead 
of M. Calixte Ermel, determined enemy of the government, 
the Spaniard finds himself before the defenders of the pub- 
lic safety, who do not shrink from the performance of their 
duty. There! am I not right? am I not a sorcerer ?” 
asked M. Beaucanteuil, stroking his chin. 

“ No, my friend, no, you are not a sorcerer,” replied the 
notary, with a slightly malicious expression, “but I ac- 
knowledge you are a skillful logician, and your suspicions 
are not without apparent cause.” 

“Good ! you confess, then?” exclaimed M. Beaucanteuil 
in the best of humors, smiling like a sovereign who grants 
a pardon ; “ I judged aright that he was a Spaniard, and 
that you knew him. I am sure that he smokes the pape- 
lito” 

“ No, the cigar.” 

“ A fortiori ; he who is guilty of the greater is guilty of 
the less! He is a Spaniard. How does he pronounce 
Xer&s ?” 

“ Not at all.” 

“Mere manoeuvring. I think him a Castilian. Let us 
bet that he plays the guitar.” 

“ No, the piano.” 

“ It comes to the same thing ; the piano is a stationary 
guitar.” 

“Beaucanteuil, my friend, you are witty!” 

“ My dear Ermel, you are stupid 1” 

“ What must I do to make you think me wfise ?” 

“ Answer me frankly, cease struggling against evidence. 
Come, you will no longer deny it, will you?” 

“How can I deny? You ask questions and answer them 
yourself. Besides, should this person really be M. de Varni, 
I should probably not recognize him ; the last time I saw 


32 


CLOTILDE. 


Charles de Varni he had just left college ; that is fifteen 
years ago.” 

“ What was his appearance at that time?” 

“ Ah!” replied the notary, who called to mind the first 
act of the “Pie Voleuse” and the description of Fernando 
read in various ways by Ninetta ; “ he then had a fair 
skin, with chestnut hair so light as to be almost flaxen.” 

“Good!” exclaimed M. Beaucanteuil ; “this person is as 
dark as an African hunter, and his hair is the color of a 
raven’s wing.” 

“You surprise me! My Yarni was small, with an incli- 
nation to embonpoint.” 

“ Bravo ! this man is thin, and his height is five feet six 
inches.” 

“ I can recall nothing more : he had a broad flat nose.” 

“ Better and better ! This fellow has an aquiline nose — 
as aquiline as can be.” 

“ A mark on his left cheek.” 

“ No mark at all !” 

“ I think I remember that he stammered.” 

“Bravissimo! this person speaks rapidly, and what is 
more, he has not the least accent,” added M. Beaucanteuil. 
“ I confess I thought he spoke too well for a Spaniard, and 
that puzzled me somewhat ; I suppose he learned French 
at Bourges from some professor there.” 

“But what do you intend to do in this uncertainty?” 
asked the notary, affecting to be much depressed. 

“ Ah, you call this uncertainty, when I have just reg- 
istered all your declarations ?” 

“ Declarations ! I have made none,” replied M. Ermel, 
who knew that a slight resistance would not spoil the situa- 
tion. “ You have suspicions : I cannot oppose you with proofs. 
I have recollections : you oppose me with facts, but I say 
nothing, I believe nothing, I know nothing. Your conjee- 


PROLOGUE. 


33 


tures may be visionary, my recollections may be incorrect. 
M. de Varni may be changed ; if that is what you call a 
declaration, you are easy to satisfy !” 

“Well! well! I understand that you will not surrender 
without the honors of war ; but whilst awaiting fuller in- 
formation, the pretended Viscount de Varni, alias the Span- 
ish officer, alias the traveller without a passport, will be 
lodged in prison.” 

“ Ah, we have been long getting to it,” said the notary 
to himself ; then he added aloud, with an assumed expres- 
sion of surprise and grief, “In prison ! for a mislaid pass- 
port! Oh, monsieur!” 

“Yes, Ermel, in prison!” repeated M. Beaucanteuil, 
who the more he was contradicted, the more he stuck to his 
opinions. “ But be quiet. We know the respect due to 
misfortune and fidelity. The imprudent stranger will be 
treated with all desirable politeness ; he will have a good 
room, and you can go to see him if you wish to. Thus we 
act, our party, and yet your journals accuse us of being 
arbitrary and of persecuting people !” 

“ But if you are mistaken?” 

“If we are mistaken, we shall soon know it, for this 
interesting alias speaks of writing to his friends in order to 
prove his identity ; then we will tender him our apologies, 
and I will invite you beforehand to my private office, where 
we will drink to the health of all the Varnis, past, present 
and to come. But if the aforementioned individual is what 
I suppose, we need only praise ourselves for our perspica- 
city and firmness ; we shall once more have contributed to 
the public safety, and our prisoner will remain under lock 
and key till further orders. There, now, good-evening ; my 
dinner is getting cold. Because it pleases the enemies of 
Queen Isabella to attempt new imprudences is no reason 
why M. Beaucanteuil should lose his meals. Adieu, then, 

C 


34 


CLO TILDE.. 


M. Ermel, and no bad feeling. I came to learn, and I 
have learnt.” He left the room, with his head erect and 
his eye fixed, with the air of a man who had saved his 
country. 

Left alone, the notary felt himself so worn out by these 
two successive scenes of such different character that he 
was forced to rest a moment in his arm-chair. Then grad- 
ually recovering and resuming the current of his thoughts, 
the recollection of every detail of these two strange visits 
passed through his mind. “ Charles is saved,” cried he, 
an expression of joy brightening his thin face ; “ the whims 
of the excellent Beaucanteuil will give us time, and that 
is all that is required. Several days must pass before M. 
de Yarni can write to Interlaken and receive an answer, 
and all will be right without any effort on my part, without 
my even having spoken, and no one, not even M. d’Arri- 
oules, can accuse me of having violated this horrible oath ! 
Has not M. d’Arrioules done it all? was it not his valet, 
who, the better to obey his master — Ah, it is providential ! 
Yes, M. de Yarni in prison, all his projects are brought to a 
stand. Meanwhile, time passes ; the 10th of October ar- 
rives ; and then,” continued the notary, energetically — “then 
all is ended. I am free, and this atrocious compact is dis- 
solved I I can speak, I can reveal all, and Charles will for 
ever have escaped this fearful peril ! O my God, I thank 
thee ! Thou w T ert not willing that this last crime should be 
accomplished. And you, Clotilde de Varni, you are van- 
quished! Your infernal power will return to insignificance 
like a spectre which sinks for ever into its tomb.” 

Evening advanced. The purple and opal tints of sunset 
were fast fading away, and merging into the dark blue of 
an autumn night. M. Ermel lit his lamp, and by this 
flickering light he looked around. Involuntarily his eyes 
rested - on the portrait of Clotilde de Yarni. Her pale and 


PROLOGUE. 


35 


lovely face seemed, in its fixed and terrible expression, to 
return his gaze with a look of menace and defiance. He 
felt a new quiver of fear pass over him, and violently 
drawing the silk curtain, he let it fall over this fatal figure. 

Early the next day, after a sleepless night, M. Calixte 
Ermel directed his steps toward the prison. He was in 
haste to see the Viscount Charles de Varni. After having 
complied with the customary formalities, he ascended a 
steep staircase which led to the large corridor into which 
opened the narrow, whitewashed cells reserved for prisoners 
of distinction. In one of these cells, supplied at a mo- 
ment’s notice with a few articles of furniture, M. de Varni 
had been confined. Here M. Ermel was again surprised. 
He expected to find Charles enraged, but he was in good 
spirits, and inclined to take his adventure as a joke. 

The Viscount Charles de Varni was indeed a strange 
person. At once sentimental and fickle, affectionate and 
trifling, enthusiastic and skeptical, the inconstancy of his 
feelings counteracted their intensity. One would have sup- 
posed that his life was a story he was relating, and he 
always wished to touch it with the marvellous. Benjamin 
Constant had contracted, during his acquaintance with 
Madame de Charriere, “an unconquerable aversion for 
common maxims.” Charles de Varni, carrying this an- 
tipathy still farther, had made it a rule to do in every case 
exactly the reverse of what any other person would have 
done in his place. Never being twice alike was at once the 
charm and the defect of his character, and he always 
appeared so disinterested that he disarmed censure by fore- 
stalling it. His instability and romantic imagination often 
led him to commit follies, which he repaired by confessing 
them, and the grace with which they were acknowledged 
often lightened his sorrow for the errors of which he had 
been guilty. Everything had conspired to render him such 


36 


CLOTILDE. 


as we have endeavored to paint him. The violent death of 
his father, the tragic events which had overshadowed his 
infancy, had turned him aside from ordinary paths by 
darkening the threshold of his childhood with a vague 
legend of horror. Brought up in Paris at a period of great 
political events, soon followed by misfortunes, his education 
in times so exciting, instead of teaching him self-reliance, 
had disposed him to understand without applying know- 
ledge, to dream of everything and believe in nothing. His 
wandering life had strengthened this instability of mind and 
heart by changing every year the current of his affections 
and ideas and altering his habits so soon as formed. To 
appreciate all that is serious in life, man should be a stu- 
dent. Although there is within us a curiosity and desire for 
change, ever impelling us toward the unknown, God, to 
counteract the evil growing out of this very desire, has estab- 
lished a sort of affinity between the places we inhabit, the 
duties devolving upon us, the creatures who surround us 
and the sentiments which actuate us — mysterious circle, of 
which the heart is the chord ! He wished that our garden 
trees, the crumbling walls around our houses, the wild flow- 
ers which adorn our plains, the periodical changes of sea- 
sons, the flocks of birds flying on autumn evenings against 
the gray sky, should arouse in the more hidden recesses of 
our souls a world of thoughts and reminiscences — frail yet 
powerful chain, binding the past to the future, the rising to 
the passing generation ! Divine emotions on again seeing 
our native land, with its well-remembered faces ! the distant 
smoke of the paternal roof! joyous shouts of the child who 
grows whilst we watch over it! sad appearance of the 
graveyard where those we have loved await us ! you alone 
are worthy to fill the heart of man. To seek other objects 
is a folly. 

Thus Charles de Varni, deprived alike by family and 


PROLOGUE. 


37 


education, by character and habit, of all that gives an aim 
to existence, necessarily became what he was — a dreamer, 
a dilettante, half gipsy, half nobleman, with great im- 
pulses rather than deep feelings, taking life rather as a 
romance than a series of duties, mistaking his imagination 
for his heart, sometimes the dupe of others, oftener of him- 
self and of destiny, and whatever the joys or sorrows of 
his lot, never utterly miserable nor altogether happy. An 
artist by nature, like all men similarly constituted, Charles’ 
vanity was increased by the effort to conceal it, and few 
felt more keenly than he the fear of ridicule. Moreover, 
accustomed to mistake the caprices of his dreams for reali- 
ties, he had determined that he would never marry unless 
he could make of his marriage a chapter of romance. Let 
it now be judged whether M. d’Arrioules had chosen well 
his weapons and found the vulnerable points. AVhat must 
have been to this isolated young man, this romantic mind, 
the acquaintance of a woman as beautiful as Esther, 
disguised as a marquise the widow of a morose old 
man many years her senior, and allowing herself to be 
gradually borne along the flowery paths of mutual love? 
What would be the effect of this horrible drama on 
Charles de Yarni if M. d’Arrioules should accomplish his 
designs ? 

On seeing M. Calixte Ermel, M. de Varni threw himself 
on his neck, embracing him repeatedly with filial affec- 
tion. “My old friend!” said he tenderly, “my guar- 
dian! my second father !” A tear trembled on his eyelids 
and choked his utterance as he pronounced the last words, 
but he soon continued gayly, showing the notary his little 
bare, white cell, 

“Well, my friend, what do you think of the lodging 
my ungrateful country has given me?” 

“ Believe me, Monsieur le Viscount, it grieves me,” re- 
4 


38 


CL 0 TILDE. 


plied the notary, somewhat embarrassed. “ But how did 
this mistake take place?” 

“I will tell you; perhaps you have already heard it, 
but I must repeat the story to convince myself of it. 
Besides, I am like M. de Pourceaugnac, piglia Id sil, signor 
monsu! Listen, then. On leaving the steamboat yester- 
day, I found myself face to face with a man who offered to 
conduct me wherever I wished to go. ‘ M. Calixte Ermel ?’ 
asked I. ‘The notary!’ cried the man, not allowing me to 
finish my sentence ; ‘ I will take you to his house.’ Upon 
that, he took possession of me and of my baggage, and we 
started off. We had scarcely gone a hundred steps, when 
what do you suppose he proposed to me ? To show me the 
curiosities of the town. I told him that I was in haste, 
that my respect for notaries did not permit me to look 
upon them as curiosities, and that I wished to go to M. 
Ermel’s and nowhere else. My guide made no reply, and 
we walked on. He brought me to a large house orna- 
mented with a guard and sentry-box. Absent as Gringoire, 
I did not notice these details till I found myself in an 
ugly hall. My cicerone whispered a few w T ords in the 
ears of a stout gentleman who was there, set down my 
baggage and vanished. That fat gentleman — oh what a 
pompous air ! — that man, I tell you, delivered me a long lec- 
ture on the public safety, on Spain, France, the impotence 
of factions — in short, a ministerial tirade, which he must 
have read in the morning. I looked at him coolly, pa- 
tiently, wondering what this mystification would lead to. 
Alas! it led to this place! The orator wound up his 
periods by demanding my passport. Nothing more just. 
I searched my pockets, but there was no pocket-book! 
The man at the boat was only a skilful pickpocket, and I 
had been fleeced like a fool ! Yes, my friend, a pretty little 
pocket-book, containing, besides my passport, two bank 


PROLOGUE. 


39 


notes and a portrait — ah ! that is what I most regret — the 
likeness of an adored and adorable lady, the divine Mar- 
quise Octavia J” . . . 

“ Small loss,” murmured the notary between his teeth. 

“ You know, my passport once gone, I was completely 
defeated ; the fat gentleman — What is his name, my 
friend?” 

“ M. Denis Beaucanteuil,” answered M. Ermel, mechan- 
ically. 

“ Well, M. Denis Beaucanteuil took a paternal tone, 
and, after a second homily (worthy sister of the first one), 
he informed me, very politely, that under such suspicious 
circumstances, not being able to get at the truth, he was 
forced to secure my person. Pitiful play of words ! Do 
your public officers do no better generally?” 

“Barely,” replied the notary, who had listened to this 
recital with an appearance of consternation. 

“ I exclaimed ; I flew into a rage ; I gave my name, I 
gave yours ; I declared that M. Ermel would never allow 
matters to remain thus. ‘M. Ermel?’ answered my per- 
secutor; ‘I esteem him highly, but he himself is only too 
great an object of suspicion in such matters.’ ” 

“ Alas! he said truly.” 

“ In short, within ten minutes I found myself betrayed, 
accused, judged, condemned and executed. To do M. Beau- 
canteuil justice, once determined to send me to prison, he 
overpowered me with politeness. It would be impossible to 
incarcerate a man with greater elegance. Then' I must 
confess the affair was not lacking in romance. The unex- 
pected situation ; the torches lighted to show me my way ; 
your papal palace, which seemed like a gloomy giant to 
me, swallowing me with one of its mouths of iron and 
stone ; the moon, which rose at this moment ; my nocturnal 
incarceration •; then this little window overlooking such a 


40 


CLOTILDE. 


beautiful landscape, — in all this there is coloring and cha- 
racter — two very rare things at this day. 

‘Mais puisque je retrouve un ami si fidele, 

Ma fortune va prendre une face nouvelle.’ 

“ In simple prose, what does all this unusual severity 
mean, and when will I be released ?” 

“Good heavens! I scarcely know how to answer you, 
monsieur. It appears that our authorities have received 
very stringent orders on the subject of suspicious travellers, 
because the late Spanish troubles, the escape of the Count 
de Montemolin — ” 

“What!” exclaimed M. de Varni, “I have been taken 
for a Spaniard! Just my bad luck. Ten years ago, in 
Catalonia, I barely escaped being shot for a Frenchman.” 

“ Unfortunately,” continued M. Ermel, “ you have no 
acquaintance here but myself, and though I am devoted 
body and soul to you, in this case I can be of no service to 
you. I am but a poor Carliste , as they call me, and the 
more anxiety I should display to have you put at liberty, 
the more necessary would they imagine it that you should 
be kept in prison.” 

“ It is serious, then? Well, that is still more odd,” said 
M. de Varni. “ Do you know, my dear Ermel, Denis de 
Syracuse was a lamb in comparison with your Denis de 
Beaucanteuil. Strange vicissitudes of human life! After 
I have travelled over the whole world with impunity, and 
escaped arrest in Italy, roasting in Africa, freezing in 
Russia, impaling in Turkey, kidnapping in Greece, being 
eaten in India, all to be baffled in Avignon by a commis- 
sioner and his assistant, before a bust of Louis Philippe 
and a copy of the law ! But let us leave philosophical 
tirades. I must tell you, my friend, why I have broken the 
promise I made you never to return to this country till you 


PROLOGUE. 


41 


recalled me. I was so anxious to see you ! I came to 
speak to you — to ask — to announce — ” 

“ Oh, monsieur !” interrupted the notary, “ I beg you 
will not tell me what brought you here whilst you are in 
prison. It would be an ill omen, and would do you no 
good. When our good officers shall have learned their 
mistake, and I can at length have the honor of seeing you 
in my own house, then I shall be ready to hear and serve 
you/’ 

“But when will that happy time arrive? for I declare, 
a joke, even a good one, is spoiled if prolonged.” 

“You have probably left acquaintances in the place you 
have just quitted ?” 

“ Certainly, at Interlaken ; my excellent friend, D’Arri- 
oules, and his sister, the adorable woman who — ” 

“Very well,” again interrupted M. Ermel. “Write, 
then, to this friend. His reply will prove your identity.” 

“ I must, then, await his reply. So many days lost !” 
said M. de Varni, sighing. “ How tiresome, especially for 
a man in love ! and how can I occupy the long hours I 
shall have to pass here?” * 

“If you will allow me, I will come often to see 
you.” 

“ Oh, I count on that,” replied Charles, taking M. Er- 
mal’s hands affectionately in his own. “ But you have your 
business, and I would not have you neglect it on my ac- 
count. Besides, my friend, to acknowledge that one wearies 
of being alone is to acknowledge that one wearies of one’s 
self, and that is bad ! I will do my best. What a beautiful 
view there is from here!” continued he, after a minute’s 
silence, “ and what a pity to be able to enjoy it only from 
behind the bars of a prison J” 

In fact, there is nothing more beautiful than the land- 
scape to be seen from the little loophole whence Charles de 


42 


CL 0 TILDE. 


Varni gazed at that moment. The eye, looking beyond the 
picturesque enclosure of the town lying at the foot of the 
rock des Doms, can trace in the east the colossal outlines of 
Ventoux, beyond which stretch the beautiful mountains of 
Vaqueyras, their sharp ridges and singular outlines sug- 
gesting the idea of the jawbone of a shark beside the 
gigantic skeleton of a stranded whale. Nearer, the banks 
and islands of the Rhone, with their luxuriant vegetation 
already showing the varied tints of autumn, form a large 
semicircle between the base of the hills and the rapid 
waters of the river. In the foreground are the tower and 
fort of Villeneuve, the beautiful ruins of the bridge of 
Saint Benezet, which stands in strong relief against the 
confused masses of houses, rocks and groves of trees ; and 
the two arms of the Rhone, branching for an immense 
space and flowing around Bartlielasse, the richest and most 
fertile of its isles, w 7 hich is crossed by hedges and walls, and 
the quivering branches of whose poplars overhang the 
waters, giving it the appearance of an overfilled basket. 
At sunset the mountains of Languedoc and Provence con- 
trast by their warm tones with the freshness of the sur- 
rounding plains, and the background, bathed in that lumin- 
ous haze peculiar to fine days in the south, seems to prolong 
rather than to bound the horizon. All this was animated, 
gorgeous, transparent, rich in coloring, dazzling in the 
sunlight. 

“ Yes, this view is very beautiful,” repeated M. de Varni, 
smiling sadly, “but to enjoy it one should be free as the 
swallow, not like a caged bird : this cell spoils it all.” He 
continued after a pause, “ But, my friend, we will not grum- 
ble ; let us find the best way to pass these days of durance. 
Are cigars available?” 

“I do not know,” answered M. Ermel, w r ho still used a 
snuff-box. 


PROLOGUE. 


43 


“ I beg you to procure some for me ; then I would like 
to have a piano : I am not anxious on that subject; they 
can be had .everywhere ; two or three scores of operas — 
Semir amide, William Tell, Don Giovanni — and some books. 
Are there any circulating libraries in Avignon ?” 

“ Certainly ; you know circulating have replaced private 
libraries.” 

“ Well, be kind enough to get some good books for me — 
Madeleine, Colomba, La Mare au Liable, Le Spectacle dans 
un FauteuilP 

“All your commissions shall be executed in an hour.” 

“ A thousand thanks, my friend ! In the mean time I 
will w T rite to Simon d’Arrioules, and ask him to prove that 
I am in existence, and called by my own name, if I can do 
so, for one is sure of nothing in this devilish country !” 

M. Calixte Ermel went out and executed all M. de Var- 
ni’s commissions, except that respecting the books. He had 
a plan of his own. 

He returned in a few hours. 

“ Here are excellent, that, is to say, contraband, cigars,” 
said he to Charles ; “ this evening you will have a piano 
and the scores you asked for. As for the books, it is im- 
possible to get a single one of those you desired.” 

“ They did not have them ?” 

“ They have them, but good novels are always out.” 

“ What did they offer you ?” 

“ Oh, some trash ! — La Fille du Brigand, Les Orphelins de 
la Foret, Les Chevaliers de VAigle noir, Le Sauvage de la 
Montagne — ” 

“I do not know them,” answered Charles with the air 
of a duchess to whom you spoke of a business woman ; 
“ then I shall have nothing to read !” 

This was the moment for which the notary had been 
waiting. 


u 


CL 0 TILDE. 


“ You will think me very bold,” he said, as if struck by 
a sudden idea, “ but if you would — if I would not be tax- 
ing your patience, perhaps I could supply — ” 

“ How so?” 

“Yes, in want of better, I really think I could find 
among my old papers some which, arranged a little and 
listened to with indulgence—” 

“You, my friend!” 

“You are astonished, monsieur. A poor notary, devoted 
to parchment literature, proposes himself as your romancer 
for a few days. And yet, if you reflect, who better than 
the notary can collect those hidden documents, necessary to 
the observer, on which to found those histories true as 
romance, or those romances unlikely as history? The 
notary ! He is the valet-de-chambre of the human heart ; 
he sees it en d6shabill6, stripping itself piece by piece of its 
garments fashioned by pride, displaying beneath them hid- 
den leprosy or gaping wounds ! At this day, when religion, 
alas! occupies but a secondary place — at this day, when 
calculation absorbs the mind — the notary has succeeded the 
priest ; he is the confessor of the money-box, the modern 
conscience. There is no disguise to him, no dissembling, 
no lying ; he knows what deceptions and tears are concealed 
by the smiles of this young wife, what impatience and joy 
are disguised by the hypocritical weeping of that heir. All 
the springs which move the world come to be repaired in 
our offices ; we alone know the first act of many tragedies 
of which you see but the denouement; we alone could ex- 
plain many enigmas of which you vainly seek the solution ; 
we possess two mysterious keys which open to us the past 
and the future, namely, contracts and wills. In our dull 
deeds, which seem to contain only the dust of years, the 
affrighted eye might find matter to set friends at variance, 
to divide families, to separate husband and wife, ruin the 


PROLOGUE 


45 


rich and dishonor the honest! Do you think that the man 
who holds all these threads, who guards all these secrets, 
assists in all these dramas, watches over all these trusts, 
looks into all these dangers, the man who sees the reverse 
of all those medals bearing the human impress, and who, 
sometimes with one syllable if he uttered it, with a signa- 
ture if he showed it, could put an entire province in com- 
motion, — do you suppose this man would not be able to find 
some histories worthy to be heard, in the night of past 
years? Ah, monsieur, a notary who had talent to write 
would be the most exciting novelist, the most profound 
moralist, the most truthful historian of our age, for no one 
learns to despise men more than he, or more truly to say 
from his heart, 1 God alone is great F ” 

Whilst pronouncing these words the notary had become 
more and more animated • he had drawn himself up, and 
his face had assumed an expression altogether new. 

“ Truly,” cried Charles, stupefied, “I, who boast of 
my fondness for surprises, have been served to my taste 
for some hours. Commissioners, assistant commissioners, 
prison, all take part. Nothing was wanting — ” 

“ But to find a notary whose recollections are a romance,” 
interrupted M. Ermel, smiling. “ Well, monsieur, will you 
consent to hear the ‘ Recollections of a Notary ’? I recom- 
mend them to your indulgence.” 

“Will I consent? I assure you, I am dying of impa- 
tience, and I beg you will not keep me waiting too long!” 

“Till to-morrow, then,” said M. Ermel, bowing as if 
to take leave. 

“I have yet a favor to ask of you,” said M. de'Varni. 
“ Here is the letter I have written to Simon d’Arrioules ; 
here is another for his charming sister, my dear Octavia. 
Be kind enough to mail these two letters.” 

“ I am going to the post-office,” replied M. Ermel, taking 


46 


CLOTILDE. 


his hat, “ and I promise to take them myself — next week,” 
added he, softly, closing the door. 

The notary spent the whole evening in putting in order 
papers of various dates, to which he added letters, frag- 
ments and torn leaves which seemed to contain personal or 
family memoirs. He worked all night, arranging ail these 
scattered papers to form a continuous narrative of them. 
The next morning he repaired to M. de Yarni, and read to 
him what follows. 


PAET FIEST. 


I. 

THE RETURN. 

O N the 13th of November, 1755, a young man of fine 
and noble bearing, wearing, under his cloak, the uni- 
form of a naval officer and the cross of St. Louis, was 
travelling on horseback on the road from Nimes to Avig- 
non. It was easy to see from the air of suffering evident 
in his entire person, his pallor and the languor of his 
horse, that he was returning from a long journey, on which 
he had probably met with danger and fatigue. Judging 
by the brightness of his eyes, the animation of his counte- 
nance and the emotion with which he trembled from time 
to time, as if with the ague, one might guess that he was 
near the end of his journey, and that some great joy or 
great sorrow awaited him. When he reached the table- 
land which commands the pretty town of Villeneuve, 
whence Avignon can be seen in all its beauty, with its 
monuments and the surrounding landscapes, he stopped, 
as if overcome by emotion. A few steps from the road 
an elegant and romantic ruin rises in this lonely place. 
It is called La Belle Croix. The cross is no longer in ex- 
istence, but the pedestal, formed of several steps, now half 
broken, still remains, surmounted by a gothic arch of the 
most picturesque appearance, the moulding of which stands 
out in bold relief against the beautiful azure of the sky. 
The traveller dismounted, and seating himself on the steps 

47 


48 


CLOTILDE. 


of La Belle Croix , he cast an eager look on the sublime 
landscape spread before him. 

Evening was advancing ; darkness was already stealing 
over the plains ; the beams of the setting sun, gradually 
driven from the valleys and lowlands, still rested on the 
heights* .jike life, which, when leaving the body, still lends 
a last brightness to the brow of the dying. It was the 
hour when the grand and solemn beauty of the rock and 
the papal palace show most perfectly, when, gilded by the 
evening sun, their colossal outlines rise against the foggy 
sides of Mount Ventoux. But the young man I have just 
introduced seemed at this time entirely absorbed by a 
more personal and lively train of thought, for his eyes 
sought one point in this collection of towers, roofs and 
turrets at which they seemed to gaze with a mysterious 
anxiety, and in a trembling voice he gave utterance to this 
name, which seemed to come from the innermost depths of 
his heart : 

“ Clotilde !” 

Whatever was the story contained in this name, what- 
ever love was in this cry, the stranger still waited for half 
an hour, and night had fallen before he resumed his jour- 
ney. Then he descended the hill, whose picturesque sides 
stretch like an amphitheatre under their dense thickets of 
olive trees, left his horse at an inn in Villeneuve, and 
walking along the bank of the Rhone, he waited some time 
for the ferry-boat, that inconvenient mode of crossing, 
which has been supplanted by the famous modern bridge, 
yet to which belongs the only immortality lasting in France, 
that of a song. 

Having reached the ramparts of Avignon, he looked to 
right and left, as if to ascertain his whereabouts ; then by 
the faint light of the stars, he started toward a tavern, 
situated a few steps from the old bridge of St. Ben6zet. 


THE RETURN. 


49 


This tavern, a great favorite with the boatmen on the 
Rhone, and even with the young people of the town, 
attracted the attention of passers by a pretty statue of the 
Holy Virgin, in the Byzantine style, and by a sign, on 
which might be read, in spite of the eccentricities of a 
doubtful orthography : 

“ Au poisson frais du Rhdne Thibaut sert d boire et a 
manger .” 

Once there, the young man no longer hesitated. He 
walked directly to the door of the tavern and rapped. A 
young girl of dazzling beauty opened it, but she had scarcely 
set her eyes on him when she uttered an exclamation of 
surprise and fear, as if a ghost had suddenly risen before 
her. He enjoined silence by a gesture, and the beautiful 
girl, after having looked at him again, doubtless to assure 
herself of his identity, stole away without saying a word, 
like a bird, or like a sylph, or rather like a woman who has 
a secret to tell or to hear. 

There now remained in the tavern only one traveller and 
the host, Master Sebastien Thibaut, who came, out of breath, 
from the end of the back room, to show to the new-comer his 
bloated cheeks, his protruding stomach and pompous face, 
the classical attributes of his profession. The stranger did 
not allow him time to offer his services. 

“ Are you the master of this house ?” he asked. 

“ Yes, sir, at your service,” replied the host, in a business- 
like manner. 

“Very well. I will take it from you for this evening 
for myself alone, or those whom I wish to receive here. Ho 
you understand ?” 

“ But, sir, it is striking eight; my customers will come, 
and I do not know what to do — ” 

“ What do their expenditure and your receipts amount 
to every evening?” 


50 


CLOTILDE. 


Thibaut reflected a moment, as if making immense cal- 
culations, then answered, 

“Nearly thirty pounds.” 

“ Here are a hundred ; close your doors and admit no 
one.” 

The tavern-keeper bowed in token of obedience. 

“Now listen to me,” resumed the stranger. “ Doubtless 
you know a young man in this town named Dominique 
Ermel ?” 

“The head clerk to M. Margerin, the notary?” 

“ Exactly.” 

“A fine young man, sir; an upright, quiet, handsome 
fellow, and desperately in love with Mademoiselle Antoinette 
Margerin, the only daughter of his patron, who will not. 
let her marry him because M. Dominique is too poor. A 
good reason, indeed !” continued Thibaut, shrugging his 
shoulders. “As if M. Dominique and Mademoiselle Antoi- 
nette were not, in every respect, formed for each other. It 
must be admitted that parents are sometimes harsh, proud, 
avaricious and — ” 

“All this does not concern us,” interrupted the stranger, 
impatient of this flow of words ; “ I have another question to 
ask you. Do you also know Claude Rioux, the fisherman ?” 

At this question the host made a terrible grimace. 

“ Do I know Claude Rioux ? Alas ! only too well, my 
good sir — only too well. I have no harm to say of him ; he 
is a manly, merry fellow, who has not his equal at fishing, 
and is the king of our jousts and battles.” 

“Well, then?” 

“ But would you believe, sir,” continued Thibaut, lower- 
ing his voice, “ that he has the audacity to pay court to my 
daughter ? He, Claude Rioux, a poor devil who is nothing 
and has nothing, to aspire to the hand of Mademoiselle 
Julie Thibaut, the prettiest girl in Avignon, and destined 


THE RETURN. 


51 


some day to have twelve hundred crowns for her dowry. 
Ah, monsieur, what a time we live in ! Children no longer 
obey their parents. When I had the misfortune to lose my 
wife, I thought I would have some years of quiet. I forgot 
my daughter. Since she has grown as large as you and I, 
and as beautiful as our Holy Virgin, I am in perpetual 
misery. Lovers to drive away, gallants to reject, and to 
cap the climax, Claude Rioux, whom Julie has the bad 
taste to prefer — ah, what a business ! I became pale and 
thin, and sank away — But pardon me, monsieur; what 
can I do for you?” added Thibaut, who had been carried 
away by his natural loquacity, and now remembered his 
role as host. 

“ Go at once to M. Dominique Ermel, the notary’s clerk, 
and tell him that some one expects him here. If he asks 
you who it is, answer by these two names, Clotilde , Le Lys ; 
he will understand, and come.” 

“ I will go quickly,” said Thibaut, who felt that he 
could not obey quickly enough a man who paid so well. 

“ One moment more : you will then go to Claude Rioux, 
the fisherman ; tell him his presence is desired here. If he 
asks you by whom, you must answer by these two names, 
Clotilde, Le Lys ; he, too, will understand, and come.” 

“ I will go,” replied the host, although this second com- 
mission pleased him much less than the first. 

“ Go.” 

“But where the devil has Julie gone to?” cried Thibaut, 
then noticing the disappearance of his daughter. “ Oh, that 
girl will certainly drive me mad ! she slips through one’s 
fingers like an eel.” And whilst pouring out his paternal 
grievances, he took his felt hat and cloak and prepared to 
set out. 

“Be quiet, and shut the door tight,” said the stranger; 
“ I will take care of the house.” 


52 


CLOTILDE. 


The host went out. Left alone, the traveller listened a 
moment to the sound of the receding footsteps ; then leaning 
on a corner of the table, he remained plunged in a deep 
reverie. 

At the expiration of half an hour the door opened, and 
two young persons of about the same age rushed into the 
room, crying with an accent of joy mingled with astonish- 
ment and trouble, 

“ Monsieur Gaston de Tervaz !” 

The stranger thus named extended his hands to them, 
and cried, no less moved than themselves, “ Dominique ! 
Claude!” 

The former of these two young men wore the modest 
traditional costume which one always sees in the Theatre 
Franyais in the last acts of the comedy — a low three cor- 
nered hat, a neck-tie, a close coat of black serge, breeches 
of the same stuff, shoes and stockings to match — but his 
slight and elegant figure, his sentimental and expressive 
countenance drew- attention, notwithstanding his simple 
dress. He was named Dominique Ermel. 

The other (it was Claude Rioux) was a strong contrast to 
his companion. Large, vigorous and well built, his eye full 
of fire and energy, black hair escaping in disorder from 
under his black cloth cap, his athletic shoulders visible under 
a serge cloak of a kind of coarse ratteen made in the coun- 
try, — such was the young man whom Master Thibaut rejected 
as a bad match, but whom a young girl or a recruiting-ser- 
geant could not but admire as a type of strength and daring. 

They again pressed the hand Gaston de Tervaz had ex- 
tended to them, and the latter, choking back the questions 
which seemed to rise to his lips, said to them in a voice 
which emotion rendered almost inaudible, 

“ Before all, my friends, one word, one only — Mademoi- 
selle Clotilde de Perne ?” 


THE RETURN. 


53 


On hearing this name, this agitated question, Claude and 
Dominique bowed their heads sadly. Gaston grew terribly 
pale, and exclaimed, “ She is dead ?” 

“No,” responded Claude and Dominique together. 

“ Then she is married ?” 

This time they were silent, but their silence answered for 
them. 

Gaston fell back in his chair like a man thunderstruck. 
He pressed one hand on his heart and one on his eyes. But 
in spite of his efforts to restrain himself, violent sobs shook 
his frame, and great tears fell between his clasped fingers 
and rolled down his cheeks. 

It was one of those moments when consolation is impos- 
sible ; his two friends understood this, and allowed him to 
give vent to his despair. Finally, Ermel approached him, 
and pressing his hand, said, in a sweet sad tone, “ Courage ! 
Mademoiselle de Perne thought you dead, and — ” 

“ And there was some frightful underhand dealing in the 
whole affair,” added Claude Rioux, in a grave tone. 

“ Married ! married !” repeated Gaston, every word 
smothered with tears. “ I who believed in her as in my 
God — ah, she wearied of waiting for me! And yet, if 
there was in the world a woman who seemed capable of 
keeping plighted word, it was she! Such firmness, resolu- 
tion and courage! Had I one foot in the grave, I would 
still have said she would not change ; it seemed to me that 
had I been nailed in my coffin she would have remained 
true to me. Illusions ! lies ! follies ! All is gone, lost, for 
ever lost!” 

Then passing from despair to a sort of feverish curiosity, 

“ Whom did she marry ?” he asked. 

“ The Viscount de Varni.” 

“ The Viscount de Varni ! the man whom she most de- 
spised, the personal enemy of her father !” 


54 


CL 0 TILDE. 


“Yes, the Viscount de Varni, the cousin of the vice- 
legate, the man whose hatred is mortal.” 

“ Ah ! then she is twice lost,” cried M. de Tervaz, falling 
again into his first despair. Nevertheless, as the human 
heart is so formed that grief cannot enter it without admit- 
ting a ray of light, Gaston was struck with the idea that 
something extraordinary must have taken place before Clo- 
tilde de Perne could have been induced to marry M. de 
Varni. Surely, said he to himself, she may have given her 
hand, but not her heart. 

This idea revived him, and turning toward Claude and 
Dominique, who* had not the courage to break this melan- 
choly silence, “ My friends,” said he, more calmly, “ tell me 
all ; I promise to bear it like a soldier.” 

“But you yourself, M. Gaston,” replied Dominique 
Ermel, who saw that it was necessary to divert his thoughts 
from this first grief, “tell us how you came here — you 
whom we have mourned, you whom we thought a victim, 
with all the crew of the £ Lys,’ to the perfidious attack of 
the English ?” 

And the young notary’s clerk handed to Gaston a num- 
ber of the Courier d’ Avignon, dated December, 1753, in 
which he read that two vessels of his Majesty Louis XV., 
the “Lys” and “L’Alcide,” surprised by the English in 
the Indian Ocean, contrary to international rights and the 
word of treaty, had been, after a long and heroic resistance, 
vanquished and sunk by forces three times greater than 
their own. The most curious thing to all admirers of 
strange rumors was that the good journalist, in announcing 
this news, exhausted himself in invectives against this new 
trait of the perfidy of incorrigible Albion, and in hopes for 
the longevity of the French government. “So,” added he, 
“ one cannot tell which to admire most, the obstinacy of 
this people in constantly defying our anger by new marks 


THE RETURN. 


55 


of treachery, usurpation and hostility, or the magnanimity 
of our sovereign, who, rising above these injuries, does not 
allow them to ruffle his majestic indifference.” Thus news- 
papers then talked ; each one did w T hat it could. 

“ Ah ! it matters little what I suffered,” resumed Gaston 
de Tervaz, after having read it. “ I hoped then ; I loved 
and was beloved. The vast expanse of the ocean and sky, 
under my feet and over my head, was reflected in my heart. 
And when my poor vessel foundered, ruined by the bullets 
of the enemy, when, wounded in the arm and in the 
breast, I myself became a prisoner, I murmured the sweet 
name of Clotilde, and the captive was free, the conquered 
was again happy.” 

“But then — this combat, that captivity, the rumors of 
your death ?” 

“ It is true that the ‘Lys’ is no longer in existence; nearly 
all the crew have perished, and my poor captain was killed 
before my eyes,” said Gaston, stealing one moment from his 
grief for these recollections. “ The combat was provoked. 
Our two vessels fought eight hours against five English ves- 
sels. Twice we tried boarding, and twice contrary winds 
crossed our efforts. Our deck was covered with dead, the 
two lieutenants were killed, and the captain, placing him- 
self in front of the flag, swore he would be nailed to it 
rather than surrender. At that moment I saw him disap- 
pear ; I heard a scream, but the white flag was still there. 
Vive le roi! I cried ; et a toi, Clotilde, toujours! then fell, 
in my turn, on the deck. My blood was flowing from my 
two wounds. ... I had not felt them. ...” 

In recalling this scene, M. de Tervaz had become ani- 
mated in spite of himself. His cheeks were less pale, and 
his eyes sparkled, though still wet with tears. 

“When I recovered my senses,” he continued, “I was 
lying in the cabin of one of the English captains. Captain 


56 


CLOTI'LDE. 


Hower treated me as his own child, and during all the time 
we passed together I found in him, under a stern and cold 
exterior, the affection and devotion of a father. At last, six 
months since, we came in sight of Saint Domingo. ‘ Gas- 
ton,’ he said to me, ‘you are free. The threats of war 
between England and France are temporarily dispelled. I 
have received orders from my commanding admiral to leave 
you at Saint Domingo, where you will be picked up by a 
French frigate. At the same time this was sent to me for 
you ;’ and he gave me the cross of St. Louis, with a lieu- 
tenant’s commission, without telling me that he had used 
his influence for me with the cabinet of Versailles. So I 
received my liberty and my reward at the same time. Ah ! 
I had but one idea — that Mademoiselle Clotilde de Perne, 
who would have been refused to poor Gaston, an humble 
ensign and a penniless orphan, would perhaps be given to 
Lieutenant de Tervaz, promoted at twenty-three at the 
command of the king. That moment was too Sweet. I 
felt too happy, too proud. This cross, that promotion — I 
have brought them to her, and she has not waited for me ! 
Oh, Clotilde, the English bullets are not as cruel as you. 
It is you who are killing me!” and M. de Tervaz, aroused 
one moment from his despair by the recital he had given, 
seemed again plunged into it with fresh bitterness. 

“But you, my friends,” said he, “you, who would make 
me forget what I suffer, who would hide from me that 
which I must learn, I beseech you, tell me all ; I would 
hear all, and should it kill me, I will still have courage to 
listen.” 

“We can only tell you,” replied Dominique Ermel, 
f ‘what happened to ourselves. When Mademoiselle de 
Perne returned four years ago from Montpellier, where she 
had last seen you — ” 

f ‘Yes,” interrupted Gaston, “I had gone to pass the 


THE RETURN. 


57 


autumn as usual with my good old aunt, the only relation 
left me in this world.” 

“When Mademoiselle Perne returned, she seemed full 
of confidence in the future ; you know well her haughty, 
resolute character. She knew that you were poor, that 
before asking her hand of her father you had a future to 
make for yourself, a fortune, a name, to gain ; you were 
both young — she seventeen, you nineteen, you could wait. 
Such had been the last words you had exchanged in part- 
ing, and you would have thought they had left on her 
pure and lovely brow the reflection of the triple halo 
so well suited to the young and happy — love, courage, 
hope !” 

“ I, too, had carried them away in my heart as my only 
treasure,” said Gaston, with unutterable anguish. 

“ Things remained thus for two years. The Marquis de 
Perne, a widower, feeling himself growing old, sometimes 
urged his daughter to accept some of the numerous offers 
made her, so that before dying he might be assured of her 
happiness, and enjoy life again in his grandchildren. But 
she always refused, giving as a reason some one of those 
thousand pretexts which young girls never lack. Our 
minds were at rest on this subject, but the news of your 
death fell like a thunderbolt in the midst of this deceitful 
security. Judge of our affliction. It was doubled when 
it became necessary to announce this tidings to Mademoi- 
selle de Perne. You may remember,” continued Dominique, 
less firmly, “a young person, Mademojselle Antoinette 
Margerin. She assumed the task of breaking it to her 
noble friend, at first as a mere rumor, then as a frightful 
reality. She bore this dreadful blow with a melancholy 
firmness and resignation more alarming, perhaps, than 
violent transports would have been. ‘No, Gaston is not 
dead ; I feel it here/ said she, putting her hand on her 


58 


t'LOTILDE. 


heart. Then she continued, ‘ But should this terrible news 
prove true, from this time I am betrothed to the grave. I 
will be faithful to him.’ ” 

“ Ah ! I am thankful for that,” exclaimed Gaston, for- 
getting all else. 

“ For a month she lived in retirement, receiving no one 
but Mademoiselle Antoinette Margerin and J ulie Thibaut, 
the only confidantes of her secret. About this time the 
Viscount de Varni returned from Rome, w T here he had 
been sent on a mission by his cousin, the vice-legate, and 
where he had spent several years. His great lawsuit with 
the Marquis de Perne was not yet concluded, and their 
ancient family feud did not seem extinguished. Neverthe- 
less, we soon learned that they had made a most amicable 
arrangement. This concession was attributed to a new 
feeling which was said to have taken possession of M. de 
Varni. ...” 

“Oh, speak, speak on!” said Gaston, seeing that Dom- 
inique Ermel still hesitated. “Do not fear to plunge the 
poniard into the flesh. The suffering it causes me is the 
only feeling which still binds me to life.” 

“M. de Varni saw Mademoiselle de Perne at church. 
Before his departure she was but a child, and he had 
scarcely noticed her ; now he found her a young lady, and 
so beautiful that people stopped in the streets to look at 
her as she passed. She made a deep impression on his 
heart. It was then that he sought to be reconciled to the 
Marquis de Perne. Nothing is impossible with an immense 
fortune, a noble name and extensive credit. M. de Varni 
was received in the house ; his visits became more frequent, 
and a few months after, we learned that he had asked and 
obtained the hand of Mademoiselle Clotilde de Perne.” 

Gaston listened to all this with inward emotion, but he 
did not interrupt. 


THE RETURN. 


59 


“ Wliat means had M. de Yarni employed to conquer 
that determined will and inflexible pride? Was it filial 
.devotion and obedience on the part of Mademoiselle de 
Perne ? Had she feared the consequences for her father of 
a refusal which would have wounded M. de Yarni’s pride? 
Had she been dazzled by his wealth and position? All 
these questions we asked ourselves when the report of this 
strange marriage was publicly confirmed. For a long time 
I refused to believe it, but I had to yield when the two 
ynung girls whom Mademoiselle de Perne admitted to see 
her, Antoinette and Julie, sought to question her timidly, 
and she replied in a tone of despairing determination, ‘ It is 
because it must be ; I do what I must do. Do not question 
me, and do not judge me.’ ” 

“ And this marriage took place ?” 

“ Before deciding finally, Mademoiselle de Perne sent me 
word that she desired to have more certainty in regard to 
your fate, and she begged me to go myself to Montpellier, 
to your aunt, who might perhaps have more positive infor- 
mation. I obeyed ; the journey only served <o acquaint 
me with another misfortune. When I arrived, the good 
old lady had just expired.” 

“Ungrateful creature that I am ! ” interrupted Gaston de 
Tervaz. “ I had not even thought of her ! So, then, I am 
alone, all alone. She who loved me is dead, she who lives 
can no longer love me. . . . For this marriage has taken 
place?” continued he, returning with a sort of helpless 
passion to the idea which tortured him. 

“ Alas !” replied Dominique, “ no one can give you the 
details of that cruel day better than myself. As the first 
clerk of M. Margerin, the notary of the two families, I 
read the contract and presided at the signing. I know of 
nothing more melancholy than the reading of marriage 
contracts in general; judge of what this one must have 


60 


CLOTILDE. 


been to me, who knew Mademoiselle de Perne’s secret — to 
me who also loved, almost without hope.” And agitated 
by another thought, Dominique was silent for an instant. 

“ Continue,’’ said Gaston, in a hollow voice. 

“ Dressed, then, in my humble costume, I entered with my 
parchments into the beautiful saloon of the Marquis de 
Perne. It glistened with gold, jewels and lights. A crowd 
of guests was gathered. Monseigneur Passionei, our vice- 
legate, was there to congratulate his cousin, and in his suite 
all the great names of Provence and the nobility had their 
representatives in that brilliant assemblage. When Made- 
moiselle de Perne entered, a murmur of admiration was 
heard on every side. She was dressed in white and en- 
veloped in a cloud of lace ; a wreath of white roses crowned 
her brow, yet neither lace nor wreath was as white as her 
heavenly face, which seemed to belong to an ideal world 
rather than to our own. She had wished to have with her 
Antoinette and Julie, the two young girls she was kind 
enough to call the friends of her childhood. They were 
there, ready to sustain her at this trying moment, had her 
courage failed her. On entering the room, Mademoiselle 
de Perne gave me a long look, as if to say that I alone, in 
all that crowd, could raise my thoughts to the level of hers. 
Nevertheless, her step was firm, her expression determined. 
Her two companions seemed more dejected than herself. As 
for me, I was in a fever. To all others who were present that 
evening was a merry-making ; to us four it was a torture.” 

“And yet Mademoiselle de Perne signed?” 

“ When I had finished reading the contract there was an 
instant’s silence; then Mademoiselle de Perne rose and 
advanced slowly toward the table. At the moment my 
trembling hand tendered her the pen she turned toward the 
door of the saloon, and I assure you that such was her 
expression that by some strange hallucination Antoinette, 


THE RETURN. 


61 


Julie and I thought that vve would see either your ghost 
or yourself appear on the threshold. But nothing was to 
be seen. Mademoiselle Clotilde seized the pen, and — ” 
Instead of continuing, Dominique Ermel put his hand 
in his pocket, and drew from it a large roll of parchment 
stamped with the arms of the vice-legate. It was the mar- 
riage contract. When Thibaut had gone to tell him that 
some one was waiting at the inn for him, and the two mys- 
terious words, Clotilde and Le Lys , had apprised him of the 
arrival of M. de Tervaz, he had had time to take this con- 
tract from the office of M. Margerin, his patron, thinking, and 
perhaps with reason, that this material proof would do more 
than any words to convince Gaston of his misfortunes. He 
now placed this paper in his hands. Alas! too convincing 
proof! Below the signatures of the newly-married pair and 
of their parents were the names of nearly all the noblemen 
of the country, and of several celebrated commoners and 
popular magistrates. Among these names, the greater num- 
ber of which are now either extinct or forgotten, were two 
— the first and the last — which would still be noticeable. 
They were like two brilliant planets in a bespangled sky — 
one already illustrious, the other at that time obscure. 
They were those of the Due de Crilloii and Joseph Vernet. 

“ Now, monsieur, here is this contract.” Here M. Calixte 
Ermel stopped, and taking a roll of parchment from among 
his various papers, he handed it to Charles de Yarni. 
Ninety-two years had passed over this paper. It was torn, 
creased and yellow, but still legible. The signature of 
Clotilde de Perne was written firmly to the last three or 
four letters: these could scarcely be deciphered. It was 
evident that the hand had failed before the will. M. de 
Tervaz, continued the notary, returned the contract to 
Dominique Ermel, and said, in a tone of deeper despair, 

“ It was consummated, then ! In spite of your recital, in 


62 


CL 0 TILDE. 


spite of you, in spite of myself, I still doubted. Yes, 
Mademoiselle Clotilde de Perne is married, or rather there 
is no longer a Clotilde de Perne. There is only a viscount- 
ess, with whom I am not acquainted, and whom I shall never 
see again. On that thought I must live, whilst waiting till 
it kills me.” 

Then, as if suddenly struck by some recollection, he said 
to Dominique, “ Before this marriage, did no sign that I 
was not dead reach you, and, through you, Clotilde ?” 

“ None.” 

“ You saw no one?” 

“No one; and this silence convinced us that you were 
no longer in existence.” 

“ So, then,” said Gaston, “ God did not permit the man I 
sent to reach here. Some accident must have turned him 
aside, or perhaps he may have forgotten after he left me.” 

“You sent some one?” exclaimed Claude Bioux, sud- 
denly, with an agitation which made his rough and energetic 
accent still more striking. “You sent some one?” 

“Yes, a man named Jean Peyrol, one of the sailors of 
the ‘ Lys/ cared for, like myself, by Captain Hower, 
of the English vessel. Yielding to my entreaties, the cap- 
tain consented to set Tim at liberty, and he left for France, 
long before I did, on a sloop-of-war w 7 hich we met, which 
was to anchor at Toulon. Jean Peyrol was devoted to me, 
and I counted on his gratitude, too. I charged him to come 
to Avignon, to try to see Mademoiselle de Perne, and to 
give her a letter, in which I told her all that had passed, 
adding that I still hoped to return to her.” 

“ And, as nearly as you can remember, about what time 
should this Jean Peyrol have' been here?” asked Claude. 

“ About eighteen months ago. In April or May of last 
year.” 

“ That is it,” said Claude, still more agitated, and as if 


THE RETURN. 


63 


speaking to himself. “Was he not a man of about forty, 
small, thin, of a swarthy complexion, delicate in appear- 
ance, with his hair closely shorn, and a wound near the 
temple ?” 

“ Exactly.” '■ 

“Well, M. de Tervaz, as sure as my name is Claude 
Rioux and I love Julie Thibaut, this Jean Peyrol came, 
and there is a terrible secret of some frightful crime con- 
cerning him.” 

“ What do you mean?” 

“ Listen to me. Last year, toward the end of April, I 
was one evening here, in the place we now occupy. Julie, 
whom her father always sends away as soon as I put my 
foot in his inn, was absent. I saw a man enter who had 
the appearance of a seaman, but whose face was altogether 
strange to me. He seated himself and called for supper ; 
he seemed weak with hunger and fatigue. Whilst Thibaut 
was serving him, I heard this stranger ask him how he 
could manage to speak with a young lady named Made- 
moiselle de Perne, the daughter of a nobleman in the 
neighborhood, the Marquis de Perne. At these two names 
I pricked up my ears ; unhappily, I was not the only one 
who heard. At another table, Baptistin, the favorite game- 
keeper of the Viscount de Varni, was eating and drinking. 
He is an arrant rogue, who would shoot a man with as little 
compunction as he would shoot a partridge — a wretch who 
dares* to make love to Julie ! But no matter, that is not to 
the purpose. Scarcely had he heard the stranger’s -ques- 
tion when he vanished. He returned a quarter of an hour 
after, and as all the other tables were taken, he seated 
himself, apparently carelessly, at the table with the stranger, 
who was finishing his supper. They were soon talking and 
drinking together. Baptistin called for some old wine de 
la Nertlie, a real fire-brand ! I saw their conversation was 


64 


CLOTILDE. 


becoming animated. The stranger had at first appeared 
to question and Baptistin to reply. I soon perceived that 
it was reversed ; Baptistin questioned and the other replied. 
Their supper did not come to an end : bottle succeeded 
bottle ; it grew late. You know the end of April is the sea- 
son for the shad-fishing. I had then to go set my nets. I 
went out, unfastened my boat, and rowed over to the other 
side of the Rhone. Although the weather was cloudy, I 
could see plainly enough, for it was full moon. I was still 
unfolding my nets when I remarked two men walking side 
by side on the bank I had just left. They walked together 
for about two hundred steps. Then I heard the noise of 
oars, and I saw these two persons in a little boat, which 
they were directing toward Barth elasse. I felt troubled 
without knowing why. There is Baptistin, said I to my- 
self, taking that man to the pavilion of Mignard, to the 
Marquis de Perne. For, according to their custom, the 
marquis and his daughter had gone to pass the spring in 
this pavilion, situated near the middle of the island. The 
trees on the bank soon hid Baptistin and his companion 
from my sight, but a few minutes later (oh, I still tremble 
at the recollection !) a scream, a terrible scream, the cry 
of a man being choked, reached me. You can judge with 
how much attention I listened. There was nothing more. 
I heard only the sound of the Rhone, which broke with 
force against the rock de la Justice. I remained in my 
boat all night, ears and eyes on the alert, expecting some- 
thing further ; I saw no one. The next day I crept among 
the bushes. I sought and examined the place where Bap- 
tistin and his companion must have landed. The ground 
appeared to me more trampled and trodden down than 
usual, and some branches were broken off at about a man’s 
height, as if there had been a hand-to-hand struggle, but I 
saw no other marks. Baptistin had doubtless taken all 


THE RETURN. 


65 


precautions. The Rhone was there, and had served to 
remove the body, as well as all traces of the deed.” 

At the unexpected history of this horrible crime, Gaston 
remained stupefied, spell-bound. Resentment, astonish- 
ment and doubt took possession of his soul. “And you 
think,” he asked, “that this stranger was the man whom 
I sent?” 

“ I then had but a confused idea, and such is the terror 
inspired by the name and power of M. de Varni that I 
never mentioned the circumstance to any one, not even to 
Dominique, not even to Julie. But now I am sure. The 
time, the description, all agree with my recollections. 
When Baptistin left the inn, on hearing the stranger in- 
quire for Mademoiselle de Perne, he went, I conjecture, to 
inform M. de Varni, and to ask him what to do. Pie re- 
turned with his master’s instructions, made your messenger 
half tipsy, drew the secret from him, and offered to take 
him to the pavilion of Mignard, to Mademoiselle de Perne. 
The stranger, suspecting nothing, went with him, and as he 
stepped ashore, a stab in the breast with a knife, a cry, a 
few smothered groans, then a body thrown into the Rhone, 
some traces of blood washed away by the waters jof the 
river — nothing more. There is the whole matter !” 

“ But why this crime?” asked Gaston, whose chivalrous 
mind still refused to credit such bloodthirstiness. 

“ Why ? Because this took place in the last of April, and 
Mademoiselle de Perne was married a month later, in the 
latter part of May. Because Mademoiselle de Perne, so 
constant and so courageous, had doubtless spoken to him of 
you, of your love and hers, of the tidings of your death, 
which alone could have allowed her to dispose of her hand. 
After that was it not necessary to prevent a meeting be- 
tween her and the man sent by you to announce that you 
were still alive ? Believe me, Monsieur Gaston, the night 

E 


66 


CLOTILDE. 


was propitious, the Rhone is deep, M. de Yarni would not 
shrink from the crime, and Baptistin is a miserable wretch !” 

They remained silent for a moment, Claude overcome by 
the horror of the recollection, the other two by the horror 
of the recital. 

“ Oh, poor Clotilde !” cried M. de Tervaz, already for- 
getting his own sufferings. “If what I hear is true, to 
what a man have you united your fate ! I am not the 
most miserable ! It is you, you, whom we must pity !” 

There was in Gaston’s mind a question which he longed 
to ask his friends, but which a sad, strange feeling arrested 
on his lips. Finally he inquired, “ And till now has this 
marriage seemed happy? Has Madame de Yarni a child ?” 
These last words were spoken in a voice almost unintelligi- 
ble. “She has no child,” Dominique Ermel hastened to 
reply. “ Few persons are admitted to M. and Madame de 
Yarni. Ostentatious, fond of show, gaiety and all that 
could flatter his pride, as the viscount formerly was, just 
to the same degree has he now become taciturn and morose. 
Although he is still young, his face is wrinkled, his hair 
gray. As for Madame de Yarni, she has scarcely spoken 
twenty words since her marriage, and no one has seen her 
smile. Yes, without being initiated into their secrets, it is 
easy to guess, or rather everything proves, that they are 
not, they cannot be, happy.” 

There was again a moment of silence ; then Gaston 
turned again to Dominique and Claude, and said : 

“Forgive me, my friends! Great griefs, like great joys, 
make us selfish. For an hour we have talked only of 
myself, for an hour you have been answering my questions 
and I have not yet asked you of your pure and beautiful 
loves. At least those whom you love are still free ?” 

“Alas!” replied Dominique, “our affairs are scarce 
better than your own. Mademoiselle Antoinette Margerin 


THE RETURN. 


67 


must obey her father’s wishes, and he will give me her 
hand only on condition that I purchase his office, and I am 
too poor.” 

“And I,” said Claude Rioux in his turn — “I am no 
farther advanced. Julie Thibaut still loves me, but her 
father is an old miser. He will only give her to a man as 
rich as himself, and I tremble lest that rascally Baptistin — ” 

“ Thus, then, all three,” interrupted Gaston, with inex- 
pressible sadness — “ all three are overpowered by the same 
obstacles, vanquished by the same enemy — poverty ! And 
for want of a little money these three young girls, these 
pearls of creation, these angels of grace and beauty, Clo- 
tilde, Antoinette and Julie, our beloved, are sacrificed, 
perhaps all three ! And we can do nothing — nothing but 
weep for them and for ourselves ! Now, adieu, my friends. 
I will return to Villeneuve, where I left my horse, and to- 
morrow morning I will again depart. Having arrived at 
night, leaving before day, having seen only Thibaut, w T ho 
did not recognize me, you, of whom I am sure, and Julie, 
wffiom you will beg to keep my secret, no one will know 
that I have been here, not even Clotilde. She believes 
me dead : let her continue to think so. She will be merely 
mistaken in the date, that is all.” 

“ Oh, but you will not kill yourself?” exclaimed Domi- 
nique and Claude together. 

“ I kill myself! — I ! Be at peace !” answered Gaston, with 
a melancholy smile. “ I have the honor to be in the ser- 
vice of the king of France! I wear a cross and a sword : 
both remind me of my duty. I will return to Brest. The 
peace between England and France cannot last ; new rumors 
of war are already afloat. I will again enter into the ser- 
vice, embark, have but the ocean for my home, a memory 
only for my love, and some day we will meet an English 
squadron, as we did two years since, then — God is good ; he 


68 


CLOTILDE. 


will permit me to fall once more, my eye fixed on the white 
flag, and shouting, Vive le roi! but next time never to rise 
again, I hope — a sweet and noblei death, the death of a 
sailor and soldier! And you, my friends, you, to whom 
hope is still granted, oh, be blessed with all that hap- 
piness of which I am deprived. Farewell ! farewell for 
ever !” 

He opened his arms, and they threw themselves on his 
breast, and these three young people, united by the same 
feeling, pressed each other in a fraternal embrace. At 
length M. de Tervaz summoned up all his courage, re- 
opened the door, and again put the anxious old Thibaut, 
who was discreetly walking outside, in possession of his 
house. Then signing a last farewell to those he was leav- 
ing, who followed him sadly with their eyes, he set out 
with heavy steps on the road by which he had come. 

The ancient clock of Jaquemart was striking ten, the 
weather had become cold and damp, large clouds were 
rising in the north, blown by a stormy wind. M. de Tervaz 
walked along the banks of the Rhone, but he was too late ; 
the ferryboat had crossed to the other side of the river, and 
he tried in vain to hail it. Just then he perceived a little 
boat fastened to the bank a few steps from him. Without 
waiting to be called, the boatman rose and offered to row 
him over. This boatman was enveloped in a large cloak, 
and wore a hat with a broad brim. The night, too, was too 
dark to allow Gaston to distinguish his face, and he placed 
himself in the boat without their having exchanged a single 
word. They crossed in silence. The boatman rowed, and 
Gaston stood looking toward the city, which was each min- 
ute becoming more distant, and whose lights were one by 
one lost to sight, extinguished like the hopes of a despair- 
ing soul. No sound was heard on either bank, only from 
time to time, in coasting along the southern side of Barthe- 


THE RETURN. 


69 


lasse, which it was necessary to round to gain the other 
shore, the oars struck the fibrous roots of the alders and 
willows, an affrighted nightbird flew from among the 
branches, or the distant barking of a shepherd’s dog sud- 
denly broke the silence. At length they touched the bank. 
Gaston sprang quickly to the ground. Whilst he w r as 
searching his pockets for change to pay the boatman, the 
latter took up his lantern, which was at his feet, and raising 
it to a level with his face, he at the same time threw back 
the cloak which covered him-. M. de Tervaz uttered an 
exclamation of surprise: in this mysterious conductor he 
recognized Julie Thibaut. It was now her turn to sign to 
him to be silent. Without saying a word, she slipped a 
narrow piece of paper into his hand, and held her lantern 
so that Gaston could read it. He ran his eyes over it and 
trembled ; a deep color suddenly overspread his pale, sad 
face. 

“ What answer shall I give for yoq?” asked Julie. 

“ Say that I will obey,” he replied. 

On the paper which the young girl had given him, Gas- 
ton had read : 

“Do not leave without having heard me; do not die 
without having forgiven me.” 


II. 


THE THREE LOVES. 

H ERETOFORE, continued M. Calixte Ermel, I have 
not exactly followed the advice of Hamilton : “ Be- 
lier, my friend, if it is all the same to you, begin at the 
beginning.” I have perhaps gone too quickly in medias 
res, and I see that before proceeding, some preliminary 
explanations are indispensable to the elucidation of my 
recital. 

You have travelled, monsieur, in the East, in Italy, in 
Spain : doubtless you think you have met the most beau- 
tiful women that can be seen. I believe that you would 
change your mind if, instead of knowing only the com- 
missioners, jailers and notaries of our city, who certainly 
represent the least attractive portion of the human race, 
you could see in our balls, on our promenades or at our 
parties those bewitching creatures born to be the delight 
of our hearts and eyes, who are called the daughters of 
Avignon. Whether Comtadines or Provengales, there is 
a mixture of the Gallic and Southern races in their blood, 
which unites in them and mingles in one harmonious 
whole the most opposite characters. Piquant and regular, 
serious and smiling, sensual and imaginative, poets’ dreams 
and sculptors’ models, sentimental as heroines of romance, 
sparkling as the creations of Moliere, nothing can com- 
pare to these splendid young girls, when, with their hands 
clasped, they scatter over our flowery fields in the joyous 
May days, fresh as the flowers and radiant as the sun. 
With bright eyes, arch manners, quiet footfalls and grace- 
70 


THE THREE LOVES. 


71 


ful figures, you would see them wearing in all its primitive 
elegance the real costume of our province, the smooth, 
glossy bands of their black hair visible under the pretty 
white cap, which recalls the ancient casque and inspires the 
desire to exclaim with Othello, “Oh! my fair warrior !” 
Be assured, the wreaths of bluebells and nasturtions around 
our attic windows are frames to many unknown Rigo- 
lettes, many forgotten Bernerettes, who lack only a painter 
worthy of them. Alas! I, a poor old scribe, with my 
wrinkled brow and heavy heart, I cannot flatter myself 
that I am able to depict their charming and original faces. 
And yet, while I speak of it to you, my frozen blood be- 
comes warm again, over my lips steals the involuntary 
smile which Homer gives to the aged men of Troy when 
they look upon Helen and their enchanted eyes belie the 
reproaches on their mouths. If this is still the case 
now, when everything is degenerating, when Avignon is 
but a decaying capital, when grass is springing between 
the stones of its rough and uneven pavement, judge of 
what it must have been when we were counted among the 
centres of reviving civilization, when we served as a bond 
of union between the polished manners, poetical tastes 
and elegant civility of the south, and the feudal barbarity, 
the darkness of which was scarcely beginning to be dis- 
pelled. Later, when this splendor was fast fading, judge 
of the beauty, brilliancy and influence our women still 
possessed, when in our town, with a population of over one 
hundred thousand, a vice-legate, a prince half ecclesiastic, 
half worldly, gathered around him a brilliant court, Flor- 
entine in its origin, French in mind and Roman at heart, 
and when the accents of poetry and the soft murmur of 
music echoed through the now gloomy walls of this palace, 
where we hear only the measured tread of the sentinel and 
the jingling of the jailer’s keys. 


72 


CLOTILDE. 


Well, at tlie time in which we open this first page of my 
reminiscences, there was neither in Avignon nor its envi- 
rons a beauty which was not eclipsed by that of three 
young girls so perfectly, so triumphantly lovely that all 
comparison, all rivalry and even all jealousy was impos- 
sible. One of these three young girls, Clotilde de Perne, 
was of noble birth, the second, Antoinette Margerin, was 
of the gentry, and the third, Julie Thibaut, belonged to 
the peasantry. Singular circumstances had presided at 
their births, and contributed to bring them together, in 
spite of the difference in their ranks and fortunes. 

All three were born on the same day. They had been 
presented at the same time at the church of St. Agricol, their 
parish. But two of them, the two wealthiest, Clotilde and 
Antoinette, had cost their mothers’ lives in coming into the 
world. It seemed as if they understood the sombre aus- 
pices under which they had entered life, for they reached 
out their little hands as if to beg a support, weeping in so 
touching a manner that the priest, the sexton and all the 
assistants were melted to tears. Among those most deeply 
moved was Susanna Rioux, a cousin of Madeleine Thibaut, 
the mother of Julie. This good woman, as poor as her 
cousin, and married, like her, to a fisherman of the Rhone, 
had a fine baby, named Claude, several months old. On 
seeing Clotilde and Antoinette in mourning, their parents 
in tears and every one in search of nurses for them, she 
placed her arms a-kimbo, and declared that Clotilde and 
Antoinette cpuld not have nurses more robust, healthy and 
devoted than herself and her cousin Madeleine. She felt 
within her, she said, strength to nourish one of the two 
orphans, as well as her fat little Claude, and Madeleine 
Thibaut took charge of the other, together with her little 
Julie. The population on the borders of the Rhone was so 
robust, and these two women had such a well-established 


THE THREE LOVES. 


73 


reputation for honesty and good health, that the proposition 
of Susanna Rioux was eagerly accepted. Moreover, M. Mar- 
gerin, the father of Antoinette, reflected that, being the first 
notary in the town, it would be a great' hindrance to him to 
have in his house a child who would require continual care ; 
and the Marquis de Perne, who had been devoted to his wife, 
who had died in giving birth to Clotilde, felt that for some 
time to come the sight of a child who had cost him so dear 
w r ould be more painful than sweet. 

The dwellings of Madeleine and Susanna were more pic- 
turesque than comfortable in appearance. They were two 
wood-covered cabins, very near together, and at ten minutes’ 
walk from the town. They were only separated from the 
Rhone by a precipitous bank, on which the fishermen had 
worn rude paths by which to descend to their vessels. 
This slope, fertilized by the deposits of the river, had been 
gradually overgrown with willows, wild vines and bushes, 
which reached from one cabin to another. Enormous thick- 
ets of poplars, thorn and young elms sheltered them from 
the winter winds, and formed, with their intertwined 
branches, a second roof replete with verdure, freshness and 
the cries of birds. Here Madeleine and Susanna lived, 
and here they brought up their children of adoption, with 
their ow T n offspring. Susanna Rioux was the nurse of An- 
toinette Margerin, and Madeleine Thibaut took charge of 
Clotilde de Perne. 

The four children grew together. They grew in the open 
air, in the sun and in the rain. They inhaled freely the 
keen, bracing north wind, whose moaning* they loved to 
hear in the evening among the trees. They ran barefooted 
on the bank, dyed their cheeks with wild mulberries, 
hunted in the bushes for the bullfinches’ and tomtits’ nests, 
and bathed their restless feet in the cool, transparent waters 
of the river. Their bodies and hearts were equally unfettered. 

7 


74 


CLOTILDE. 


They ran wild and free, like true children of the good God, 
and they developed so wonderfully that the “ four children 
of the Rhone” soon became the subject of conversation in 
the whole neighborhood. Thus they had been named by 
the boatmen, who nodded to them as they passed, and 
claimed that to meet them was the omen of success in 
fishing. At seven, Claude Rioux was already able to 
assist his father. As for the little girls, to compare them 
to cherubims scarcely conveys an idea of their beauty and 
grace. 

Notwithstanding, this education a la Jean Jacques (par- 
don the anachronism) could not last for ever. Clotilde and 
Antoinette were not formed to pass their lives among fish- 
ermen, learning nothing but to speak patois and to dam 
their stockings. 

One day the Marquis de Perne and M. Margerin came to 
reclaim their children. Many tears were shed by Made- 
leine and Susanna that day. The children, accustomed 
to live together, had conceived so deep an affection for each 
other that on parting their grief was greater than is usual 
at their age. With a sort of solemnity, which, though 
childish, was no less touching, they promised always to 
love and never to forget each other. 

More experienced, reflecting more than his companions, 
Claude Rioux had already thought on those distinctions of 
rank which must sooner or later break up their childish 
intimacy and leave only Julie with him. He took the latter 
by the hand, when the two others had disappeared behind 
the trees, and pressing her to his heart, vowed to give her 
all the love hitherto lavished on the three, since henceforth 
they must remain alone. Julie responded to this vow, and 
from that moment these two young hearts regarded them- 
selves as bound to each other. They had no cause, however, 
to complain of Clotilde and Antoinette, who fulfilled their 


THE THREE LOVES. 


75 


promise faithfully. Neither the luxury and elegance of 
the mansion of the Marquis de Perne nor the good living 
and paternal indulgence of M. Margerin could make their 
daughters forget the tenderness of Julie and Claude, the 
fresh cheese of the kind Susanna and the cakes of Mother 
Thibaut. They returned to them from time to time, taking 
playthings and sugar-plums, on which Claude set little 
value, and affectionate words which gladdened their hearts. 
It was not surprising to see Antoinette Margerin thus faith- 
ful to her friendships ; she was a good, gentle girl, whose 
angelic features reflected an affectionate, ingenuous heart. 
But as she grew, Clotilde de Perne showed a character alto- 
gether different. Her father was a cold, uncommunicative 
man, who appeared to live in the past, and rarely lavished 
on his daughter that tenderness which would have softened 
her haughty, independent nature. She became accustomed 
to repress her feelings, and from this dreary taciturnity 
united to the remembrance of the almost savage freedom 
of her early years, resulted a strange character, a covert 
but uncurbed and inflexible pride and an almost masculine 
energy which rendered her incomparable beauty still more 
striking. Clotilde was not vain; she knew her value, and 
this feeling, which made her disdainful to her equals, van- 
ished when she came in contact with the poor and humble. 
Whenever she found herself with Antoinette, as soon as she 
crossed the threshold of Madeleine’s cabin, when, dressed 
in their best, Julie and Claude would bashfully bring her a 
basket of mulberries or a bouquet of violets, she again be- 
came the child of the fields, simple and good, affectionate 
and charming. But when she was forced to resume her 
place as a person of birth and education, and to receive 
in her father’s house the elegant and aristocratic ladies of 
the country, her true character appeared. She manifested 
in this intercourse a freezing, haughty formality, which, 


76 


CLOTILDE. 


whether caused by restraint, natural coldness or conviction 
of her superiority, repulsed all confidence, all sympathy. 
As her name, her fortune and her beauty were great, 
Clotilde de Perne was not sixteen before she was sought by 
the most brilliant matches of Provence and Languedoc. She 
did not deign to notice the attentions of which she was the 
object, nor even to honor with a refusal those who pressed 
their pretensions farther. She affected to ignore or not to 
understand that she was their aim. It was evident that 
she placed so high a price upon her person and affections 
that she thought no one worthy to gain them. 

Every autumn Clotilde de Perne spent several months in 
the country near Montpellier with her maternal grand- 
mother, the Countess of V6nejan. The latter was an old 
dowager who had seen the last years of the reign of Louis 
XIV., and some little of the earlier period of the regency. 
Without being corrupted by the atmosphere of courts, she 
had there acquired easy and indulgent morals and an 
amiability which by contrast gave her a certain ascend- 
ency over her proud and haughty granddaughter. “ My 
dear child,” she would sometimes say, caressing Clotilde’s 
chin with her white, well-shaped hand, “you are a field 
flower, a wild blossom ; they it is whose colors are brightest, 
and whose perfume sweetest: happy he who gathers and 
enjoys them.” And as Clotilde would reply, “Never!” 
with a disdainful toss which became her wonderfully, the 
good dowager would answer by an old proverb as amiable 
as herself, “II ne faut jurer de rien /” 

One day, whilst Mademoiselle de Perne was at her grand- 
mother’s, and according to her usual custom was riding in 
the country, she happened to prolong her ride rather farther 
than usual, and night was drawing near before she thought 
of returning to the castle. She had allowed her bridle to 
fall on the horse’s neck, and was admiring the fading tints 


THE THREE LOVES. 


77 


of evening, when at the turn of a lonely road she met three 
or four students from Montpellier, who, having feasted in 
some tavern in the neighborhood, w r ere retracing their steps 
to the city, their heads more full of alcohol than good 
sense. On seeing this beautiful young girl coming toward 
them, wandering far from any habitation, their Southern 
brain became more inflamed, and they assailed the bold 
rider with some of those compliments which are really 
insults. ’Twere vain to attempt to paint the surprise, the 
chagrin, the indignation, of Mademoiselle de Perne. She 
stopped short, and threw on the offenders a look which 
must certainly have struck them dumb had they been 
capable of understanding its expression, but they were not 
persons to stop when they had gone so far ; puns, sarcasms 
and obscenities were showered upon her, and for the first 
time in her life Clotilde (frightful torture to her) felt her- 
self almost humiliated. 

At this moment a young man scarcely eighteen years of 
age, whose appearance gave promise of more courage than 
strength, suddenly sprang from a group of trees a few steps 
distant, and losing no time in words, he fell upon the 
assailants and dealt among them heavy blows as fast as 
hail with his cane. After the first instant of surprise, the 
students, ashamed to be beaten in so unequal a combat, 
turned their rage against the new-comer, and he would 
have been in a most miserable condition had not Clotilde, 
rousing from her stupor and inaction, urged her horse to- 
ward one of the students, and with a hand whose strength 
could not have been suspected dealt him the most energetic 
cut across the face with her riding whip that ever an irri- 
tated Amazon aimed at an offender. This unexpected blow 
was the signal of victory. Confused with having such an 
enemy on their hands, the students scattered, and half 
laughing, half in disorder, they fled across the fields. 

7 '* 


78 


CL 0 TILDE. 


Mademoiselle de Perne remained an instant immovable. 
In the heat of the action her hat had fallen off and her 
beautiful light hair fell in waves over her shoulders. Her 
eyes flashed, her dilated nostrils seemed to- call for ven- 
geance, her bosom heaved with a strange emotion, a mix- 
ture of scorn, confusion and pride. It was thus that she 
appeared to her unknown defender when he first looked at 
her, and the result was one of those sudden impressions, 
one of those undying sentiments, which decide a destiny. 

Clotilde, in her turn, looked at him. He seemed scarcely 
older than herself, and his noble and expressive face lent 
to the circumstance an air of chivalry. She was grateful 
to him for having come so apropos, for having devoted 
himself to her, and having spared her the only humiliation 
she had ever feared, and kindly, frankly, without coquetry, 
false shame or hesitation, she offered him her hand. 

An acquaintance commenced under such auspices neces- 
sarily made rapid progress. Clotilde soon learned that the 
young man was an orphan without fortune, the son of a 
poor gentleman of Rouergue, who had died during the late 
wars. His name was Gaston de Tervaz. 

Gaston was a midshipman — that is to say, a cadet in the 
naval school. He came every year to spend his holidays 
with an old aunt, the only relation left him, who lived in a 
country-seat near the castle of the Countess de Venejan. 
Once having obtained this information, Mademoiselle de 
Perne knew how to find the means of soon seeing her young 
defender. Had he betrayed a desire to presume on the 
services he had rendered her, she would have armed her- 
self against him with that superb contempt which seemed 
worn to defend her against all surprises of her heart, and 
she would have reproached as a weakness the first impres- 
sion he had made upon her. But to the intrepidity of a 
lion Gaston united the candor of a child and the shyness 


THE THREE LOVES. 


79 


'of a young girl, and at their second meeting Clotilde found 
him more abashed and confused than herself. The juve- 
nile emotion served him better than the most skilful com- 
binations would have done. Happy in the knowledge of 
her strength and superiority, Mademoiselle de Perne at 
first felt for M. de Tervaz the affection with which a 
brother would have inspired her — a brother younger and 
weaker who looked to her for support. She was not 
alarmed at an affection which did not cause her to doubt 
her strength, and her heart was the more quickly given 
when she thought it invulnerable. 

But Mademoiselle de Perne had even more frankness 
than pride. As soon as she had acknowledged to herself 
that she loved, she neither sought to feign, to deceive her- 
self, nor to gain time by the aid of those innumerable 
manoeuvres of feminine strategy of which she was ignorant, 
and which she would have despised had she been acquaint- 
ed with them. She was not of Cathos’ opinion in regard 
to the preludes, hesitations and half avowals which should- 
precede a declaration and serve to preface an attachment. 
This love shared the resolution and independence she 
threw into everything, and she thought that because she 
loved M. de Tervaz he w T ould become worthy of her. Her 
grandmother, in whom she confided, listened with an in- 
dulgent and skeptical smile to the avowal of this deep, 
eternal, irrevocable sentiment in a young girl who was not 
yet sixteen. As the aged and those who have seen a great 
deal of the world treat these affairs in the very young 
lightly, and as the Countess de Venejan was, moreover, 
devotedly attached to her granddaughter, she did with a 
good grace all that Mademoiselle de Perne asked of her. 
She had her horses put in her carriage, and went with 
Clotilde to call upon her neighbor, Gaston’s aunt; friendly 
relations were established, and these two amiable old people 


80 


CLOTILDE. 


were content to watch from afar the fresh spring love 
which was growing before their eyes. These children were 
so pure, their affection was so honest, that a more active 
supervision would have been at once injurious and fruit- 
less. Both knew that they loved and were beloved long 
before they had told it, and when Gaston, being obliged to 
leave for Toulouse, where he still had to pass another year 
at school, said farewell to Mademoiselle de Perne, they felt 
that their hearts were for ever united, and they added in a 
whisper that their destinies were henceforth inseparable. 

The following year, about the same time, they again met. 
The interval had perfected Mademoiselle de Perne’s beauty, 
and given to it a certain air of poetry, animated and inten- 
sified by reciprocal feeling. What time had done for their 
persons love had done for their minds. They were not 
changed, but developed and strengthened. Absence is like 
solitude — it weakens what is already weak, and strengthens 
what is strong; it ripens that which it does not make aged, 
and renders eternal that which it does not efface. 

It was the last autumn that Gaston spent with his aunt. 
He had just obtained the rank of ensign, and in three 
months was to leave for Brest, and embark on the “ Lys” for 
a perilous and distant expedition. Clotilde and Gaston had 
but this short time left them before a separation, perhaps 
long, perhaps eternal. There were three months of enchant- 
ment, of sacred and poetical enjoyment. Mademoiselle 
de Perne did not deceive herself in regard to the future. 
Hers was not one of those soft, undecided natures which 
think to conquer the world with its romantic reveries. The 
enthusiasm of her heart led her to view realities clearly. 
She knew that it was necessary for Gaston to go, to follow 
his career, accomplish his duty, make a name, that their 
union was impossible as long as these conditions were unful- 
filled, but the presumptuous and intrepid girl opposed all 


THE THREE LOVES. 


81 


chances of evil with two counterweights which she believed 
superior to all — her love and her will. 

To give these moments preceding their separation a 
greater solemnity and charm, Mademoiselle de Perne had a 
singular fancy.* She wished to have with her the two com- 
panions of her childhood, Antoinette Margerin and Julie 
Thibaut. All three took great pleasure in being again 
together, as ten years before, and Clotilde plunged, so to 
speak, into this friendship with that force and new ardor 
which first love adds to all the other faculties of the heart. 
They resumed their long talks, their walks across the coun- 
try. Autumn, so beautiful in the south of France, lent its 
melancholy splendors, the veiled brilliancy of its sun, the 
rich tints of its scenery, to the walks of the three friends. 
But, in place of lovely children, they had become charming 
girls ; instead of chasing each other, they walked side by 
side ; instead of laughing, they dreamed ; instead of ex- 
changing follies, they exchanged confidences. As children, 
they had been almost alike ; in developing with age, their 
beauty had taken a different character, in which a reflection 
of their various conditions was visible. Clotilde de Perne 
was the type of the maiden of high lineage, formed to 
please and command in ordinary moments, to feel and to 
suffer in revolutionary times. Blood, family — these words 
which have been so abused — shone in her whole person. 
Cinderella would have envied her feet and Anne of Austria 
her hands. The curves of her beautiful shoulders; the 
exquisite contour of her head, small and royally set on her 
slender, flexible neck ; the carriage, at once graceful and 
haughty ; the brilliancy of her eyes, shaded and softened 
by the delicate tints of her pure complexion ; her golden 
hair, everything about her, was noble and perfect as a sou- 
venir of Louis XIV. and Versailles. You had only to look 
at her to understand the two religions which women have 


82 


CLOTILDE. 


created — chivalry, which taught men to die, and gallantry, 
which taught men to live. 

Antoinette Margerin realized the ideal of attractive 
modesty, of silent and peaceful repose, which characterized 
the life of the commoners at that period. Smaller than her 
noble friend, she had neither her carriage nor the sove- 
reign grace of her attitudes and movements. Her hair, 
lighter than Clotilde’s, gave her, with her blue and limpid 
eyes, an irresistible appearance of kindness and gentleness. 
Her complexion had the delicious, virginal freshness of the 
flower which nothing has injured. The attraction of her 
face, which gradually charmed the soul, consisted entirely of 
demi-tints, and in the sudden blushes by which her ingenu- 
ous feelings were painted on her brow, and which others 
could detect before she had guessed them. The beauty of 
Mademoiselle de Perne was the ray which, while it gilds 
and brightens everything, yet dazzles the eyes; that of 
Mademoiselle Margerin was the dawn, the soft and myste- 
rious glimmer of the first hour of day, which gradually 
discovers the charms of the landscape through the morning 
mists. 

Less poetical than Clotilde, less touching than Antoinette, 
there was in Julie Thibaut, the child of the people, some- 
thing more striking, more splendid. Her brown hair, 
•which her cap could scarcely contain, enframed a face rich 
in classic beauty. A light circle of browm marked the 
black eyes and enhanced their expression, which her long 
lashes rendered still greater; an almost imperceptible down 
covered her upper lip, making her clear white teeth appear 
still whiter. The curves of her swelling bosom betrayed her 
southern blood, and her neck and arms, almost always uncov- 
ered, according to the custom of the country, were tinted 
with that warm, vigorous tone the sun gives to whatever it 
touches. Her feet were small, but her strong, coarse hands, 


THE THREE LOVES. 


83 


although very well shaped, seemed the only tribute paid by 
this magnificent nature to her habits of work and poverty. 

A king, a poet, a dreamer, would have preferred Clotilde ; 
to a simple, honest heart seeking repose in the serenity of 
a nature affectionate, not strong, Antoinette would have 
appeared most beautiful ; an artist, an admirer of form 
and character, would have fallen into ecstasies before Julie. 

Mademoiselle de Perne loved her two companions too 
truly to hide from them what was passing in her heart. 
Antoinette and Julie knew of her meeting with Gaston, of 
the progress of their love and of their distant hopes. She 
presented M. de Tervaz to them, and he v r as not long in 
loving them as two sisters, and this little corner of the world 
soon offered a rare spectacle — three young girls, almost 
equal in beauty, who never felt a pang of jealousy, and a 
handsome young man who devotedly loved one of the three 
without being the object of the coquetry of the others. 

Poor Julie gave her confidences in return : they were 
not gay. Great changes had taken place within a few 
years in the two cabins on the banks of the Phone. Father 
Thibaut, whose wife had nursed Clotilde, had been largely 
recompensed by the Marquis de Perne. Thanks to this 
money, he one fine day found himself the proprietor of two 
boats and of a right of fishing. Then he had undertaken 
a little trade of wine and oil, and finally, on becoming a 
widower, he had purchased an inn with excellent custom, 
on the quay of the Phone, in which we found him installed 
at the commencement of this narrative. Unhappily, the 
fortunes of the Pioux had taken an opposite course. M. 
Margerin was very avaricious, and the small sum he had 
given Susanna and her husband did not remain long in 
their possession. Susanna died after a protracted illness, 
during which all the household savings had been exhausted. 
Without wife, without money, forced to sell his boat, 


84 


CLOTILDE. 


Claude’s father had finally taken to drinking ; in short, a 
time came when Claude found himself alone, forsaken, 
possessing only his youth, his strong arms and his love for 
Julie. It appeared too little in the eyes of Father Thibaut, 
who, seeing the decline of the fortunes of the Rioux and 
the growth of his own, suddenly ceased to acknowledge 
their relationship, and told Claude peremptorily that he 
must renounce all pretensions to the hand of Mademoiselle 
Julie Thibaut. Such orders no one is careful to obey, 
especially when disobedience is encouraged by interest. 
Claude and Julie vowed anew to remain constant and await 
better times. Such was Julie’s recital whilst the three 
friends were walking together along the road bordered with 
hawthorns which led from the castle of Venejan to the 
more modest habitation of Gaston’s aunt. 

“Courage, Julie!” said Mademoiselle de Perne to her; 
“ courage and love are brothers ; we must both wait, strug- 
gle, suffer, but at our age to wait is to hope, to struggle is 
to overcome, to suffer is to love.” 

Then turning toward Antoinette, who had remained 
silent, she said, “You alone, sweet, gentle girl, have been 
able to guard your heart. You see in your dreams no 
image but that of your guardian angel. Oh, you who do 
not love, pray for us — pray for those who do love !” 

Poor Antoinette became as red as a cherry, and throwing 
herself into Clotilde’s arms, and resting her head on her 
bosom, she confessed in a low, a very low whisper that 
she, too, had her little romance. 

It was pure and peaceful, like herself. One of the young 
clerks of M. Margerin, her father, had often looked at her 
through the study window, as, seated under the old box 
trees in the garden, she mended the household linen. The 
face of this young man was interesting. Antoinette knew 
that his name was Dominique Ermel, and that he supported 


THE THREE LOVES. 


85 


an aged and infirm mother by his earnings. They had 
exchanged a few words, and little by little a certain famil- 
iarity had been established. The young girl looked eagerly 
for the moment when, with his face pressed against the 
window, Dominique would make her a timid bow, which 
she would return with a smile. It was not long before that 
moment became the sole emotion, the sole joy of her calm, 
monotonous days — the impression made upon her, the 
expectation and remembrance guarded in her heart. Such 
was the prelude to this chaste and silent love which was 
growing within the narrow limits of the pale, gray walls, 
where the sun scarcely rested an hour each day. This love 
gradually took possession of her soul, like* the springs 
which are formed, drop by drop, in the crevices of the 
rocks. Antoinette Was scarcely conscious of the slow, con- 
tinual, mysterious growth of a feeling which ignored its 
own existence. But one day, when Dominique was detained 
by his mother’s sick bed, and did not appear at the window 
at the accustomed hour, Antoinette, who was seated in the 
usual place at work, first trembled, then again bending 
over her sewing, she seemed to foresee trouble, then a tear 
quivered on her eyelid, rested an instant on her long lashes, 
and at last rolled softly down her fresh, rosy cheek and fell 
like a pearl on her trembling hand. That holy tear re- 
vealed Antoinette’s secret ; she learned that she loved. 

The timid girl had gone no farther on this dangerous 
but charming road. She was sure of Dominique’s love, 
but she dared not speak to M. Margerin, her father, for 
she knew that he would hear no jesting on the subject of 
money. He often told her that his business was worth 
sixty thousand pounds, and that he would only accept for 
his son-in-law a man rich enough to take his business and 
place and pay him its full value in cash. Antoinette knew 
what she had to hope, to fear, to look for. She had neither 
8 


86 


CLOTILDE. 


the patrician resolution and energy of Clotilde nor the 
plebeian strength natural to Julie. She resigned herself to 
await whatever the future had in store for her, and mean- 
time she wept, loved and prayed. 

Time passed in these sweet confidences. Gaston acted as 
guide for the three friends in their adventurous excursions. 
Madame de Venejan occasionally remonstrated with them, 
telling them that the experience of her age did not agree 
with their youthful illusions, that the world and life 
almost invariably crossed the most cherished plans of the 
heart, and that such pretty romances were often destined, 
perhaps wrongfully, to end at the first chapter. But on 
looking on those young brows, those beautiful eyes, the 
pure hearts legible on their noble, charming features, the 
good countess felt herself disarmed. She began by scold- 
ing and ended by smiling on them. 

Notwithstanding, the day came when it was necessary 
for Gaston de Tervaz to depart. After much coaxing, 
Clotilde obtained permission from her grandmother to 
accompany him, with Antoinette and Julie, as far as a 
village named Florensac, situated a league from Mont- 
pellier, at an angle of the road. Then the young man was 
to take the stage, the only resource of travellers at that 
epoch. Mademoiselle de Perne wore an air of mystery on 
the way, which would not have escaped her two compan- 
ions could they have conjectured what was awaiting them 
at Florensac. What was their surprise and agitation 
when on entering the village they met Claude Rioux and 
Dominique Ermel ! Mademoiselle de Perne, desirous to 
give to this moment a solemnity which would render it a 
reminder and date to them all, between the joys of the 
past and the uncertainties of the future, had boldly written 
to Dominique and Claude to appoint this meeting. 

“ Before we part,” said she to Gaston, “ I wished to re- 


THE THREE LOVES. 


87 


unite all on whom we can rely, and who can depend on us. 
Claude, and you, M. Dominique, I ask your friendship for 
M. Gaston de Tervaz, naval officer, in the service of his 
Majesty. Gaston, I present to you M. Dominique Ern^el 
and Claude Rioux; you already know them: they are 
both sincere friends.” 

The young people shook hands, and she continued : “ M. 
Dominique, Antoinette loves you ; Claude, you are beloved 
by Julie; M. de Tervaz, you are sure of me, are you not?” 
(Gaston was about to speak.) “It is well,” she went on; 
“ words and vows are useless between us. Trust my heart ; 
it is there I turn to read in your own.” 

“Clotilde!” exclaimed M. de Tervaz, choked by the vio- 
lence of his emotion. 

‘‘Antoinette, Julie,” resumed Mademoiselle de Perne, 
“love them who love you. They are wor#iy of you. I 
believe in your friendship, as you believe in mine.” 

Their only reply was to throw themselves on Clotilde’s 
bosom, and neither lover nor painter could have pictured 
a group more graceful, more poetical or more beautiful. 

“Oh yes, be united,” she said. “We have many ob- 
stacles before us, and, it may be, misfortunes. But what 
misfortunes, obstacles' and perils may not be dared by six 
hearts, six young hearts, bound by the same thought, 
strengthened by the same love, guarded by the same cour- 
age?” 

As she uttered these words there was an authority, 
strength and enthusiasm in her appearance which no one 
could have resisted. 

“Command, dispose of us!” cried Claude Rioux. 

“ M. de Tervaz is about to leave us,” she replied. “ He 
- is going to cross oceans, to brave dangers. In a few 
weeks, worlds will be between us. We who remain to- 
gether must therefore think of him.” 


88 


CLOTILDE. 


“ Well,” answered Claude, “if ever M. de Tervaz should 
have need of Dominique or of me, let him send for us; 
we will hasten to him at the first call. ,, 

.“Thank you, my friends; I accept,” said Gaston. 

“ And what shall be the watchword, if some prudential 
reason forbids your giving your name?” asked Dominique 
Ermel. 

Gaston looked at Mademoiselle de Perne, remembered 
the name of his vessel, and replied, “Clotilde, Le Lys.” 

“We must still,” said Claude, “choose the place where 
M. de Tervaz may be certain of finding us.” 

“I propose,” said Julie, “my father’s tavern — l Au pois- 
sonfrais du Rhone ’ — on the quay at Avignon, with a pretty 
statue of the Holy Virgin before the door. It is impossible 
to mistake it.” 

“So, then,” resumed Gaston, “whether near or at a dis- 
tance I need one or all of you, the place will be Thibaut’s 
tavern, the watchword, * Clotilde, Le Lys . 1 ” 

“Agreed!” answered Claude and Dominique. 

“It is well!” said Mademoiselle de Perne, whose agita- 
tion was betrayed only by the feverish brilliancy of her 
eyes. “ Now, Gaston, I commend you to God and to hope ! 
Here is my hand ; press it fearlessly : it is true and coura- 
geous. Here is my brow ; it knows not one thought that is 
not yours : seal on it with your lips the compact we have 
just concluded.” The strange girl bent her forehead to M. 
de Tervaz; the movement and attitude were so expressive, 
so chaste, they could awaken naught but a feeling of 
respect. 

“ Now, Gaston, go ; the hour is come !” added she, point- 
ing to the road. “The stage is near, and we must part 
here. Do not look back ; be worthy of the love you have 
inspired and of the country you serve. As long as you 
live know that I am yours. Should you fall, my heart will 


THE THREE LOVES. 


89 


go down to the grave with you, and remain for ever there. 
Adieu, Gaston, adieu, my friend !” 

“And do not forget,” added Claude, “ the two names, 
the two watchwords, Clotilde and Le Lys.” 

“ And Thibaut’s inn !” said Julie, pressing M. de Tervaz’ 
hand. 

The lumbering vehicle drew near, and Gaston moved 
slowly away. There were parting looks and waving of 
handkerchiefs ; then the young man sprang into the stage, 
and at the first turn of the road was lost to sight. Then 
Mademoiselle de Perne, who had not yet moved from her 
place, but stood silently watching the coach disappear on 
the horizon, turned and pressed her two companions to her 
heart, and a few hot tears fell from her burning eyes. 
During this whole scene she had neither wept nor given 
way. 

A few minutes later, Dominique Ermel and Claude Rioux 
left for Avignon, their hearts filled with fresh hope. 

The three friends returned alone to the castle, and the 
Countess de V6nejan, embracing her granddaughter, said, 
with an unusually sad smile, 

“ My dear child, this is your first grief ; may God spare 
you more bitter, more enduring trials !” 

Such were the events which had preceded the departure 
of Gaston de Tervaz. Such were the precious recollections 
which had sustained him during this phase of his life, and 
which he had brought back unbroken from his long and 
perilous campaign. Such were the recollections which had 
rendered the news of Mademoiselle de Perne’s marriage 
with the Viscount de Varni so frightful. 

And yet, with that confidence in the beloved object pecu- 
liar to true love, which resists even proof, Gaston, after 
having read Clotilde’s note, which Julie had just 'given 
him, did not for a moment entertain the idea of disobeying 
8 * 


90 


CLOTILDE. 


it or of doubting her. “I shall see her,” he murmured. 
“ She is for ever lost to my love, but she is still worthy of 
it.” And dwelling earnestly on this thought, which re- 
newed his courage without assuaging his grief, Gaston took 
a hasty farewell of Julie Thibaut, who had remained stand- 
ing on the bank. He then resumed the road to Villeneuve, 
whose distant spires were visible through the darkness, like 
gloomy, motionless phantoms. 


III. 


WAITING. 



FTER parting with Julie Thibaut, Gaston de Tervaz, 


■E*- as he walked toward Villeneuve, asked himself sadly 
what he should do. The more determined he was to await 
new orders from Madame de Varni, and to obey her blindly, 
the more plainly he saw the necessity of guarding a strict 
incognito whilst waiting. The frightful suspicion in regard 
to the Viscount de Varni, which he could not drive from 
his mind, his bad reputation, the vague, alarming prestige 
of his boundless power and his ungoverned will, — all proved 
to Gaston how necessary it was for him to be unknown 
whilst he remained jn the country. 

Preoccupied with these thoughts, -which added to his 
grief and the disorder <5f his mind, M. de Tervaz found 
himself at Villeneuve without being conscious of it. The 
night was so dark that he could scarcely see his way. The 
street he entered, which ended at the inn where he had left 
his horse, was deserted. No lights shone in the windows, 
no sounds were to be heard in the houses, which might 
have been thought uninhabited or peopled only with 
spectres. Gaston’s steps resounded through the silent, 
empty town, and his heavy footfalls seemed to be repeated 
behind him as he moved. 

Suddenly, as he was walking along a high, gloomy wall, 
broken in the middle by a large arched door, a strange 
sound struck his ear. It was a grave, measured song, rising 
and falling at intervals. Though deadened by the thickness 


91 


92 


CLOTILDE. 


of the walls, this chant, now sung by a single voice, now 
repeated by a choir in unison, reached Gaston distinctly, 
thanks to the perfect calm of that quiet hour. He listened 
more attentively, and heard a strong male voice intone the 
first stanza of the beautiful psalm : “ In te Domine, speravi ! 
. . . Inclina ad me aurem tuam et salva me !” 

It was some monks who were chanting the night service. 
No words can describe the effect those distant voices, those 
hymns of hope and prayer, produced on Gaston’s weary 
heart. He remembered having heard that there was a cele- 
brated Carthusian monastery in Villeneuve. He felt that 
Providence had led him thither, and that he could nowhere 
find hospitality more safe and secure. 

He knocked ; the door was opened, and without being 
required to submit to any questioning, he was conducted 
into one of the cells reserved for travellers. 

The monastery of Villeneuve, of which nothing now 
remains but the ruins, whose walls are providentially per- 
mitted to bound and shelter the poorest quarter of the town, 
then extended halfway up the hill, in a picturesque and 
charming situation. The cells overlooked a vast panorama 
formed by the distant mountains, Avignon, the Rhone, the 
island of Barth elasse, the nearest part of which was the 
pretty valley of M6jane, and the trees of the banks. With- 
out, all was smiling, within, all was peaceful. The hours 
rolled by, bringing the regular routine of pastimes, work 
and exercise, and this quiet life, mingling its sweet mo- 
notony with the serene atmosphere and beautiful landscape, 
formed a harmonious existence, the calm of nature and the 
calm of the cloister each completing the other. 

On awakening in his quiet, white little cell the next day, 
Gaston de Tervaz for a moment thought himself the sport 
of a dream. The chilly fogs of night were dissipated, a 
bright streak of sunlight fell on his bed, but his opening 


WAITING. 


93 


eyes rested on a sad face, which recalled him to remem- 
brance of the reality. It was Claude Rioux. 

Claude, who every day brought to the monastery the 
produce of his fishing, and who consequently played a 
most important part in its kitchen, the more so as they ate 
no meat at any time, had come early that morning to Vil- 
leneuve. He had seen the horse left at the inn by M. de 
Tervaz, and by dint of prudent questioning (thanks to that 
quickness of inference as familiar to the peasant as to the 
savage) he had concluded that Gaston had not departed, 
and guessed the asylum he had chosen. To go back to 
Avignon, see Julie and send her to Madame de Varni to 
receive her commissions, and return to the monastery, had 
been the work of two hours for Claude. Profiting by the 
liberty permitted him in the monastery, he had ascended to 
the cell of M. de Tervaz, and was standing by his bedside, 
awaiting the awakening of our hero, who, in spite of his 
agitation and grief, had at last fallen asleep, wearied and 
overcome by fatigue. Thus it happened that the first face 
Gaston’s eyes had rested upon was that of Claude Rioux, 
thus that the first object which touched his hand as he 
reached it to Claude was a letter from Madame de Varni. 
This letter was couched in these terms : 

“You live, and I am married. This is the only idea 
which rises above the chaos of doubt, wonder, anguish and 
despair into which I am plunged. You live, and have the 
right to call me perjured, who have never lied ; to call me 
coward, who have never quailed; to call me unfaithful, 
who had loved no one but yourself; who, bearing the name 
of another, still dare to tell you that I love you. 

“You know two years since we received tidings of your 
death. Our friends believed it; I alone was at first in- 
credulous. In spite of the cruel probabilities which seemed 
almost proofs, a voice within me, more powerful than all 


94 


CLOTILDE. 


else, protested against certainty. It assured me that you 
lived, that the heart which had been given to me and 
which I had accepted had not ceased to beat. Be it super- 
stition or presentiment, I felt that those so loved did not 
die thus ; it seemed to me that I should have received 
some superhuman evidence across space and distance, like 
the counter blow of that death which would wed me to a 
grave. 

“But when weeks and months went by bringing no 
token, no sign, to give the lie to the first reports, when 
your silence had confirmed the mournful bulletin I had 
at first refused to believe, I could but yield and at last 
share the opinions of our friends. How great were then 
my tortures ! with what feelings, alternately dejected and 
rebellious, did I struggle against that terrible conviction 
which gradually took possession of my heart like a slow 
poison in the veins! Oh, my friend, the remembrance 
alone makes my hand tremble. Do not ask me to describe 
it. Were yott here at my side, I would say to you, — Look 
at me ! and I would be understood and forgiven. 

“I no longer doubted, I no longer hoped, but I still 
loved, and my ardent, devoted heart wandered over the 
ocean, seeking the place where you had fallen, there to 
bury itself with you, when to this dreadful grief was added 
another, worse if possible. M. de Yarni, of whom you 
have heard me speak as an enemy of my father’s, returned 
to Avignon after an absence of several years. He saw 
and fell in love with me. You do not know, Gaston, what 
love is to those violent, depraved souls who are affrighted 
and deterred by no obstacle when their fiendish desires are 
to be gratified. The love of M. de Varni soon became one 
of those ungovernable passions. Under pretext of a recon- 
ciliation with my father, of business on the subject of their 
great lawsuit, he gained access to our house, and I found 


WAITING. 


05 


myself obliged to entertain him. In comparison I felt my- 
self the weakest; that haughty and imperious countenance 
froze me in spite of myself. I understood instinctively 
that strange passionate love, fatal to her who inspired it, 
fatal to him who felt it, more like rage than affection, 
hatred than devotion. I did M. de Varni the honor to 
hate and to fear him. It was mQre than I had ever felt 
before. 

“ I soon had cause for more definite fears. To my great 
surprise, I saw my father receive M. de Varni with every 
mark of welcome and respect. Incapable of dissembling, 
I asked him the cause, reminding him of their ancient feud 
and the bickerings of the two families, and showing a re- 
pugnance to the Viscount de Varni which I even exagger- 
ated, so annoyed and irritated was I by the impression he 
had made upon me. My father, who for some time had 
appeared sad and preoccupied, commanded me to be silent, 
with a sort of timid, constrained authority which gave me 
food for reflection. Anxious and alarmed, I importuned 
him with questions, and he confided to me the secret wound 
which was tormenting him. We were threatened with 
complete ruin should M. de Varni gain his suit against us. 
Our fortune, notwithstanding its brilliant appearances, had 
met w r ith disastrous shocks many years previous. Old 
debts, extravagant living, careless management, insolvent 
farmers, — all had united to open an abyss under our feet 
ready to engulf us if we succumbed in this last struggle. 
The' loss of this suit' meant not merely poverty, but dis- 
honor, for our creditors were numerous, and we no longer 
had means to pay them. 

“You know me, Gaston. Poverty scarcely affrighted 
me, but dishonor! to blush before any one! This thought 
terrified me. Although unversed in the cavils of the law, 
I begged my father to instruct me in this matter, com- 


96 


CLOTILDE. 


plicated by sixty years’ pleading. In a short time, guided 
by that feminine instinct which makes all clear to my sex, 
I was sure that in spite of the credit of our adversary we 
could not lose our cause, owing to an important docu- 
ment, an authentic title, which was in my father’s posses- 
sion, and had proved our rights for several centuries. I 
showed him this title. After a minute examination he 
saw that I was right, and, • relieved by my discovery, he 
ceased to urge me further. 

“Nevertheless, M. de Yarni continued his attentions, and 
without a positive explanation having taken place between 
us, it was evident to each that the viscount claimed my 
hand, and that his final renunciation of the lawsuit, 
which he kept suspended over our heads, depended on my 
consent. This situation, this understanding, was revolting 
to my mind. One evening I took M. de Yarni aside and 
told him I was not free; I spoke to him of you, of our 
love, of the sacred vows we had exchanged. During this 
avowal, had you but seen his face, had you but seen the 
expression of vindictive ferocity depicted on his features, 
you would have felt that, accustomed to see all yield to his 
will, he now resolved to crush in his hands the unknown 
obstacle which disputed me with him ! However, he 
recovered himself and inquired the particulars. When 
I told him that you had been one of the crew of the ‘ Lys,’ 
he exclaimed, ‘ This young man is dead!’ ‘I fear it,’ I 
replied, ‘ but I have no proof, and besides — ’ ‘ And if I 

bring you this proof?’ he interrupted. I made no reply. 
Three weeks later he returned with a letter bearing the 
French seal, which he placed in my hands without saying 
a word. That letter, signed by the secretary of the navy, 
affirmed that on the 17th of June, 1753, after an unequal 
combat with the English, the vessel ‘Le Lys’ had sunk 
to the bottom, that the crew, without a single exception, 


WAITING. 


97 


had perished ; all the dead were named, from the captain 
to the lowest sailor, and your name was there. 

“ I read this letter attentively ; I saw every mark of 
authenticity ; then I returned it in silence to M. de Varni. 
4 Well?’ he asked. ‘Well, this letter seems but too con- 
clusive, but in spite of it I do not consider myself free. I 
gave my heart to M. de Tervaz : that heart died with him, 
and can never be another’s !’ * At these words M. de Varni 
became livid with rage. He had an interview- with my 
father the same day, in which he defined our situation and 
gave him his choice — either I must consent to the marriage 
or he would urge on the suit. My friend, you can imagine 
my father’s prayers. This alliance was magnificent, un- 
looked for ! It would rebuild our fortune, it would end these 
fatal dissensions. M. de Varni was wealthy, an immense 
landholder, noble as a king, his credit was extensive, his 
friendship valuable, his hatred to be dreaded ! To all this 
I opposed an energetic resistance. ‘ I would yield,’ I said, 
‘ in spite of my repugnance I would consent to marry M. 
de Varni, did I think it possible for us to lose this suit ; 
but our right is clear, our cause sure ; you know it : I have 
proved it to you !’ and the better to convince my father, I 
ran to bring the family papers which he had shown me a 
month before. Despair, humiliation and rage ! The indis- 
pensable title on which all my confidence rested, this title 
was gone ! I hunted, I sought everywhere ; I rummaged, 
upset, broke the drawers. Nothing, nothing was there ! the 
precious document was lost, stolen ! In the abandonment 
of my grief, I at first dared to suspect my father. Guilty, 
disrespectful daughter, I believed it was he who, to render 
my marriage with the viscount necessary, had designedly 
deprived me of this last weapon. I looked at him, and 
was ashamed of my suspicions ; he was as pale, as anxious, 
as agitated, as myself. No doubt it was M. de Varni who, 
9 G 


98 


CLOTILDE. 


by means of bribery, bad corrupted one of our servants, 
and had had this paper stolen. But how to be sure? how 
to prove it? how to make others believe it? What, then, 
was this mysterious, invisible power which divined all, 
answered all, triumphed over all ? Once more I felt my- 
self crushed ; my strength, my will, trembled before his will 
and his strength. My father was at my feet, beseeching me 
to spare to his old age publicity and shame, to save him 
with one word, since one word would suffice. I should 
have resisted his commands, his threats : I was moved by 
his prayers and tears ; I thought myself already hastening 
the consequences of my refusal. I saw — horrible idea ! — I 
saw my name, the name of which I was so proud, dragged 
in the dust by enraged creditors. I already seemed to 
hear the curses of those whose ruin would be the result 
of our own, those who would be impoverished by our 
poverty ! And I had in my hands the written official proof 
of your death ! My courage failed me ; I feared M. de 
Varni ; my father’s tears, ignominy, all — Forgive me, 
Gaston, I was afraid, and yielded ; you know the rest ! 

“ Now imagine two mortal enemies forced to live together, 
two galley-slaves fastened by the same chain ; such has 
been the life of M.>de Varni, such has been mine, since 
this frightful marriage. Like all men rich enough to buy 
what they do not already possess, powerful enough to over- 
come whatever resists their power, M. de Varni had never 
felt either the necessity or desire to analyze events, feelings 
or characters ; one must be weak to trouble one’s self to con- 
jecture and anticipate, and for that reason it is said that 
women are excellent at divining and guessing. So it hap- 
pened that M. de Varni had not looked forward to the 
result which must necessarily have accrued so soon as the 
odious tie should be formed. The strange feeling with 
which I had inspired him, that violent, passionate love, 


WAITING. 


99 


intensified by pride, had sustained him during the struggle ; 
he had regarded my resistance to be overcome as a victory 
to be won, an end to be attained. But once having at- 
tained that end, everything conspired to irritate his pride, 
to cool his love; an imaginary barrier more invincible 
than real obstacles rose between us, and at the first effort 
he made to break it he felt that I would have my revenge, 
and that thenceforward he would be the weakest ; he felt 
that I had told him the truth in saying my heart was dead, 
and in seeking to reanimate it, it was ever your image that 
he found in its lifeless ashes. He had succeeded in re- 
moving your phantom for a moment to obtain my hand. 
Fruitless success! When nothing else separated us, your 
spirit returned to our side — to me as a dear and mournful 
image which was my refuge, for him as a revenging, vic- 
torious, intangible vision which enraged him against the 
impossible ! Terrible scenes followed, in which all my cour- 
age returned to me, during which, Gaston, I again became 
the Clotilde you had loved. That jealousy of the dead, 
that anger which could be vented only on a name, some- 
thing dead and unknown, was his torment and chastise- 
ment. A violent hatred, deep but not apparent, soon 
sprung from this situation, and took possession of our 
souls. Truly, I never thought myself capable of hating 
so deeply ! The instinctive horror I felt for M. de Varni 
rendered me clairvoyant; I seized eagerly upon every 
expression, every word, which escaped him, when, in the 
paroxysms of rage into which my coldness threw him, he 
seemed ready to betray himself, to boast of the evil he had 
done, to turn on his own heart an invisible and impoisoned 
blade ! I thought I had discovered secrets of villainy and 
crime. I suspected him not only of having had the paper 
stolen which I had vainly hunted, but of having obtained 
by some culpable means the official letter certifying to 


100 


CL 0 TILDE. 


your death. My conjecture did not stop there. I found 
no crime too great for M. de Yarni ; at one time I im- 
agined that you were still alive, that you had written to 
me and he had intercepted your letters ; at another, I re- 
garded him as your murderer ; the most absurd, the most 
chimerical ideas passed through my mind, like those vivid 
flashes of lightning which make night appear more gloomy. 
In the mean time my father died, his health impaired by 
grief and remorse ; he felt that he had sacrificed me, and 
that I was unhappy. Alone in the world, mourning for 
my father, a prey to my sad, heartrending fancies, I gradu- 
ally broke down ; my health gave way. Gaston, that was 
my first joy! No coquette whose glass tells Iier she is 
handsome experiences greater pleasure than I felt in see- 
ing I was no longer beautiful, that my colorless face, my 
thin figure, was but the shadow of your Clotilde! With 
what happiness I each day saw a fresh sign of M. de 
Varni’s hatred. Everything now conspires to render me 
odious to this man — the recollections of the crimes of which 
he has been guilty to win me, the repulses by which I 
have mortified him, the gloom I have brought into his 
house, all, even the unfruitful ness of our union, which has 
not given and never will give an heir to his name and 
race. Such has been my life for eighteen months. Now, 
Gaston, will you forgive me ? Such is still my life — like a 
dreadful dream from which I have been suddenly aroused 
by Julie’s voice, when she hastened to tell me that you 
were alive, that you were here, that she had just seen and 
talked to you ! Gaston, I must needs love you very dearly, 
and be very sure of your love, to tell you all that I felt on 
learning that you still lived ; it was not joy, it was but a 
variation of my grief! 

“Yes, you will forgive me — I know it, I feel it. You 
will remember that in our mutual suffering — you, betrayed, 


WAITING. 


101 


I, married— you still have the best part. I thank you, my 
friend, but that is not enough ; I wish to see you once more 
before you go for ever. I wish it as I can wish. To know 
you within half a league of me, alone, unhappy, your 
hopes blasted, ready to seek death on distant seas, — to let 
you go thus, would it not be impossible ? And what are we 
now to each other? two beings to whom the world hence- 
forth is nothing, who desire death rather than life, and 
who, so near their graves, have still the right to exchange 
a look and an adieu. A look, an adieu — is this too much, 
when you have so suffered ? Gaston, I tell you I long to 
see you, and I will see you. 

“ But this last happiness, this meeting already sacred, 
which I should not survive one minute should you ask of 
me a criminal happiness, we must, oh shame ! we must sur- 
round it with precautions like a common assignation. I 
have told you I fear M. de Varni. I always imagine that 
he watches and threatens me, that his jealousy and hatred 
surround me with invisible spies, that a mysterious and 
magic power reveals to him all that we would hide. 
Strange effect of this terror ! it seems to me that he already 
knows, or will know, that you have returned to France 
and are near me. I, so courageous, so proud, even the 
thought, the remembrance of this man, makes me tremble 
and grow pale. . . . And then, Gaston, shall I confess it 
to you? (You have loved me with my faults; I no longer 
dread to let you see them.) There is something which I 
place above your love, my hatred, even the desire to see you 
again : it is my honor, the purity of the name I bear ; it is 
that virtue for which I will descend to the tomb without a 
stain on my character. Be prudent, then, my friend. I 
do not tell you that our safety depends on it, but I say my 
honor requires it. 

“ This is what I propose to you. The Cardinal Olbani, 


102 


CLOTILDE. 


appointed by our lioly father, is shortly expected at Avig- 
non, where he will have an interview with the vice-legate 
and an envoy from the court of France, in order to termi- 
nate, at last, the eternal disputes relative to the limits and 
possession of the earldom. As cousin of the vice-legate 
and kinsman of the cardinal, M. de Yarni must meet him 
with great pomp, and give him a solemn reception. I am 
too delicate to accompany him, and this will give us the 
necessary time. It is impossible for us to meet at Avignon ; 
there would be too many prying eyes, too many imprudent 
tale bearers, to dread. No, I have considered everything, 
and concluded on the plan I am about to write you. 

“ In the period of our happiness, I have often spoken to 
you of the pavilion of Mignard, one of our possessions, on 
the island of Barthelasse, so called because the celebrated 
artist of that name there executed some beautiful paintings. 
On my marriage this pavilion was given to me by my 
father, and since then I have retained the almost exclusive 
enjoyment of it. I sometimes repair there, with Antoinette 
or Julie, when I feel myself overcome by my extreme suf- 
ferings. I would revive my poor heart by some hours of 
reverie, reflection and recollections of the past. 

“ This pavilion is situated near the middle of the island. 
In my room, which occupies nearly the whole of the second 
and only story, is a window which overlooks Villeneuve. 
Claude Eioux has just told me that you have demanded 
the hospitality of the monastery, and on thinking over the 
matter I find that, thanks to the frosts of November, which 
have stripped the country and denuded the foliage, a lamp 
lit in my window could be plainly seen from the ceil you 
occupy. Now, my friend, get Claude to point out to 
you the pavilion of Mignard, readily known by its roof of 
varnished tile. Fix the place in your mind ; then every 
evening at nine o’clock look in that direction, and when 


WAITING. 


103 


you see that little light twinkle there, know it is to tell you 
that I am in the pavilion of Mignard awaiting you. That 
distant, trembling ray, Gaston, will be our last star in this 
world; then we will raise our eyes to heaven, where those 
who have lost hope may find it again. 

“ I will not do you the injustice to add anything con- 
cerning this interview. You know I have always been a 
strange and wilful girl. Nothing in the world can stop 
me when I do not think I am wrong, but nothing in the 
world can obtain one step farther from me when I have 
reached the limits I should not pass. No, Gaston, you 
understand — do you not? — w r hat my heart has already dic- 
tated. Were anything beyond the last adieu possible 
between us, I should have left M. de Yarni’s house in 
the face of the whole town ; I would have hastened to 
you and said, Take me ! 

“ Now, adieu, Gaston, till we meet ! I have spent the 
night in writing you this long letter, but, certain that you 
had not gone, I awaited Claude’s return to close it, and 
after having seen him, I have written this last page. A 
short farewell, my friend! What can I say more? This 
idea absorbs all others — we will meet again, and then .... 
t all is silence,’ as says the English poet we sometimes read 
together. A short farewell ! Remember, the pavilion of 
Mignard, nine o’clock and the little light. . . . Alas ! the 
last time w’e were together, I said the same way, Remember 
the watchword, Clotilde, Le Lys, and Thibaut’s tavern. 
Then it was hope, happiness, life ; now it is the last adieu 
of your Clotilde.” 

After having read and raised this precious letter twenty 
times to his lips, Gaston de Tervaf placed it on his heart 
as a talisman, with a silent prayer that it might guard 
them both from danger ; then he dismissed Claude Rioux 
with a single word, — Obedience! — and for the sake of 


104 


CLOTILDE. 


greater prudence it was agreed that Claude should not 
return to the monastery whilst Gaston remained there. 

Rioux went into the kitchen, received the money for his 
fish, and left it without speaking to any one. He had just 
descended the hill on the side of which nearest to the 
Rhone the monastery was built, and was approaching the 
grove of trees which fringe the river banks, when what 
was his dissatisfaction on meeting his mortal enemy, his 
secret rival, the right hand of M. de Varni, the game- 
keeper Baptistin. Although there was nothing extraordi- 
nary in the fact that Baptistin, obliged to live in the open 
air, was walking on the shore of the Rhone at eleven 
o’clock in the morning, Claude, whether from an instinct 
of his hatred or the peculiar occurrences of the past night, 
could not but tremble. He found the expression of the 
game-keeper more sinister, his face more false, his manner 
more equivocal, than usual, and drawing his hat over his 
eyes, he muttered a few words resembling anything but a 
friendly salutation, and rapidly continued his way. We 
will leave Claude to reflect on the probable results, annoy- 
ing or hazardous, of this meeting, and we will return to 
our hero. 

Any man who has loved, or who has known a true 
lover, may have made one singular observation — that the 
certainty of again meeting, even but once, the woman 
beloved suffices if not to kill grief, at least to lull it. If 
it is to take a last farewell, the imagination, which usually 
looks beyond the horizon, now does the reverse ; it limits 
its powers, forgetful of all but this one last hour which is 
promised it; beyond that there is doubtless something — 
regret, misery, despair' perhaps — but what matters this 
mysterious and bottomless abyss? The eye refuses to look 
into it and believe. There is still one hour left him: he 
knows no more; after it he will suffer, he will weep, he 


WAITING. 


105 


will die; but while waiting he can anticipate nothing 
beyond the last hope which swallows up all other thoughts 
like the atoms which are lost in one single ray of sunlight. 

Gaston de Tervaz experienced a similar sentiment ; he 
had, moreover, passed such frightful moments on learning 
of the marriage of Mademoiselle de Perne that he felt 
almost comforted by repeating to himself that she still 
loved him, that extraordinary circumstances had been re- 
quired to influence her, and that, after all, he would again 
see her. This idea sustained him through the first days he 
spent in the monastery. He lived in the expectation of 
that hour which each evening brought round, when, closing 
himself in his cell and directing his gaze toward the island, 
toward the spot upon which his seaman’s eyes had been 
unmistakably fixed, he hoped to see the glimmering of the 
light which was to beckon him to the pavilion of Mignard. 
Then, when it had struck nine and some time had passed, 
Gaston would murmur, “ To-morrow!” and the promise of 
the morrow would become his hope and life. 

M. de Tervaz had too elevated a mind to remain insensible 
to the touching and imppsing sight perpetually repeated 
before him. His extreme sadness even disposed him to 
receive more readily the ideas and feelings aroused by mon- 
astic life. When in the large galleries surrounding the inner 
building, where the slender, trefoiled arches rose against 
the azure sky, Gaston would meet three monks in their long, 
white robes, with their passionless, tranquil faces, walking 
in the slow, majestic manner of men who can no longer ask 
of life anything sufficiently important to hasten their steps, 
he would feel an unknown peace sink into his heart. He 
attended some of the pious exercises of the monastery, he 
heard those sublime prayers each one of which seems to 
raise time into eternity, and he found human griefs small 
in comparison with so great peace. 


106 


CL 0 TILDE. 


Amongst these monks, who exchanged a grave, silent bow 
with him, M. de Tervaz soon remarked one who formed a 
painful and striking contrast with the others. He was a 
man of about forty, tall, with a noble face, but instead of 
that somewhat monotonous expression given to the features 
of the Carthusian monks in the course of time by the simi- 
larity of their feelings and habits, he alone bore on his coun- 
tenance the still visible traces of stormy passions and pain- 
ful, perhaps remorseful, recollections. He was called Horn 
Valentin. Every time that Gaston met Dom Valentin the 
latter regarded him with a strange expression of interest, 
attention and anxiety. The costume of M. de Tervaz, 
which was the undress uniform of the naval officers, espe- 
cially attracted the anxious curiosity of the monk. Our 
hero, on his side, could not divest himself, on noticing it, of 
an emotion for which he could not account, for he was sure 
he had never before seen him. Led by this strange sort of 
fascination, Gaston observed him more closely. Dom Va- 
lentin appeared voluntarily to bind himself to a much more 
severe course of life than the rest of the community. In 
the chapel, instead of praying and singing with the joyful 
security of pure hearts, he passed whole hours prostrated 
in the most humble attitudes ; on rising he never seemed 
comforted; there was neither peace nor tear in his large 
black eyes. In the refectory, where the other fathers 
displayed some natural pleasures in eating the excellent 
fish diet authorized by their rule, Dom Valentin lived on 
bread and water. His habits, his appearance, even his 
piety, all gave the impression of a mind and conscience ill 
at ease. 

Ten days had passed sifcce Gaston’s admittance into the 
monastery. Every evening at nine o’clock he had watched 
for the signal, and every evening his expectations had been 
disappointed. On the eleventh evening, a long time before 


WAITING . 


107 


the hour, Gaston was in his cell, his heart already beating. 
It was the 24th of November. It had been raining inces- 
santly all day ; the heavens, charged with rain, seemed still 
blacker as the moon broke through the rain and clouds, its 
pale, weak light showing the immense veil of mist which 
filled the atmosphere. The south wind made its monoto- 
nous, despairing wail heard through the galleries of the 
monastery ; the rain pattered faster and faster against the 
window panes. At this moment some one knocked at the 
door of Gaston’s cell. It was Dom Valentin. 

“ Excuse me,” he said. “You will, perchance, find my 
presence importunate, my curiosity troublesome, but an 
irresistible power draws me to you. Your costume, your 
youth, the sadness I have read on your brow, so unusual at 
your age, awake in my mind an idea, a presentiment, of 
which I must rid myself. Are you not a naval officer?” 

“ Yes, my father,” replied Gaston, somewhat astonished. 

“ And may I ask on board what vessel you made your 
first cruise ?” 

“On board ‘ Le Lys.’ ” 

At this word the monk grew pale, and it was with visible 
emotion that he asked, 

“ Then you probably knew a young man named Gaston 
de Tervaz ?” 

“ Gaston de Tervaz ! It is myself.” 

“You! you!” exclaimed Dom Valentin; and by a 
movement so rapid that Gaston could not # prevent it, he 
threw himself at his feet. 

“In the name of heaven what is the matter?” asked M. 
de Tervaz, aghast with surprise. 

“ The matter is that I am a culprit, a villain, and the 
sight of you, and your name recall my crime and my 
shame. For the past year I have besought God’s pardon, 
and you, too, I must ask your forgiveness.” 


108 


CLOTILDE. 


“My forgiveness? and why? I have never seen you; 
we have never met.” 

“ But I know you, and in proof I shall tell you why 
you are here. You came hoping to find still free the 
woman you love, but she now bears another’s name. This 
woman was deceived. She believed you had perished with 
all the crew of ‘ Le Lys.’ She only married after having 
seen a correct, official letter certifying your death.” 

“ Yes, this is all true,” said Gaston, terribly distressed in 
his turn. “ But how could you know it ?” 

“ That letter! it was I w r ho wrote it,” said the monk, in 
a low voice. 

“ You, my father! And w 7 hat had I done to you? what 
had Mademoiselle de Perne done?” cried Gaston, turning 
away. 

“Ah! I knew that you would repulse me!” said Dom 
Valentin, clasping his hands. “ You cannot forgive me — 
for that reason my remorse is so frightful, my prayers 
so fruitless! God will refuse to absolve while you curse 
me.” 

“ Let me hear, my father ; tell me all,” interrupted Gas- 
ton, touched by his deep grief. 

“ Allow me only to conceal my real name. Alas ! it is 
illustrious. It would tell you the position I once occupied 
in the world, and how I happened to have in my posses- 
sion some of those weapons which serve the righteous for 
good, the wicked for evil. I was one of the youth of our 
time, so brilliant and so depraved. It was in Paris, in the 
midst of gayety and pleasure, that I met the Viscount de 
Varni. I bound myself to him. ... Do you begin to 
understand ?” 

“ Yes,” answered Gaston, in a stifled voice. 

“ We became intimate. We had the same passions, the 
same boldness, the same hatred of opposition, the same con- 


WAITING. 


109 


tempt for conscience. One day he rendered me one of 
those services the merit and worth of which worldly honor 
so exaggerates. * Viscount,’ I then said to him, 4 henceforth 
I am yours for life or death. I have influence. If ever 
you need my services, they are yours.’ Some time after, 
M. de Varni left for Rome. We lost sight of each other, 
and I thought no more of my ’promise till, two years since, 
I received a brief but expressive letter from him. * I am 
going to claim your services,’ he wrote. ‘ You have power 
in the ministry. It is necessary that a young man named 
Gaston de Tervaz, ensign on board the * Lys,’ should have 
perished in the combat against the English. The written, 
official proof of his death must be sent to me here. I 
require it, to replace the said Gaston with a beautiful 
mourner, who desires to be perfectly sure of her premature 
widowhood before permitting your servant to console her in 
marriage.’ Signed, 4 The Viscount de Varni.’ ” 

44 And in that way such men speak of the holiest, purest 
affections !” interrupted Gaston, who, with a delicacy of feel- 
ing more easily understood than explained, was at first less 
struck by the deed itself than by the tone of this letter. 

44 In pity let me finish. ... I executed M. de Varni’s 
commission. It then appeared to me only one of those 
amiable peccadillos, one of the charming crimes, which 
love excuses, as is said in the world ; and yet something so 
odious attaches to everything resembling a falsehood in 
the eyes of men of honor that your name often recurred 
to my mind as an annoying recollection. My anxiety, too, 
was great, when I learned, six months later, from a despatch 
from the English admiralty, that the young Gaston de 
Tervaz had survived the destruction of 4 Le Lys,’ that he 
was a prisoner on board an English vessel, that he had 
fought bravely, and they demanded for him a lieutenant’s 
commission and the cross of Saint Louis. My remorse 
10 


110 


CL 0 TILDE. 


dated from that moment. I vainly sought to drown it by 
plunging into greater dissipations and follies; to distract 
my mind, to escape from myself, I determined to travel* 
I started for Italy, and in passing through Avignon I 
paid a visit to my old boon companion, M. de Yarni. 
Alas ! I had not been an hour in the house before I had 
measured the whole extent’ of my fault and understood 
all the evil I had done. I still seem to see the gloomy 
sadness reigning there, the vain efforts of the viscount to 
amuse me, and, above all, the pale face of Madame de 
Varni. How beautiful she still was in spite of the rav- 
ages of grief! What a revelation was contained for me 
in those sunken cheeks, in that hectic flush, those earnest 
eyes, in her sad, pensive manner ! That was a day of pen- 
ance ; ten times I was on the point of throwing myself at 
her feet and telling her all. I was afraid of her, and 
ashamed of myself. Alas ! I had not reached the climax 
of my sorrow. One hides nothing from his accomplices, 
and M. de Yarni told me that to obtain Mademoiselle de 
Perne, to win this barren satisfaction for his pride, he had 
done much more and much worse. . . . But no ; I will 
not tell you what he did. . . . But that avowal, the air 
of the house, the sight of Madame de Varni, the disorder 
of my thoughts, heaven’s mercy perchance, — all took pos- 
session of my mind and hurried me on. I took flight, 
and, guided by the finger of God, I came and closed myself 
in this monastery. You too, you have come here, driven 
by the sufferings of your heart, by the image of this woman, 
but happier than I, grief alone has led you, I — it is re- 
morse! — a remorse frightful, unceasing, unappeasable, which 
a year of austerities and prayer has been powerless to calm, 
for even whilst I pray I have before me the pale face of 
Madame de Yarni demanding of me her lost happiness. 
I always think I hear your name echo between God and 


WAITING. 


Ill 


myself, to accuse and curse me. Ah ! I tell you again, 
before God can forgive me, your forgiveness is neces- 
sary ! . . 

Gaston hesitated a moment, then extended his hand to 
Dom Valentin, and said mournfully and gently, “ Rise, my 
father ; I pity and forgive you !” 

The monk thanked him by 'a look, an expression of un- 
utterable gratitude and deep humility; doubtless his con- 
fession and this forgiveness had removed a terrible weight 
from his heart, for his countenance, till now so sad, so 
agitated, became peaceful and calm. Nevertheless, he 
retained Gaston’s hand in his own, as if he had still some- 
thing to say to him. At the same minute the monastery 
clock struck half-past eight. It was the hour at which the 
evening service began, and from Gaston’s cell they heard 
the voices of the monks chanting, “ Deus in adjutorium 

MEUM INTENDE : DOMINE, AD ADJUVANDUM ME FESTINA.” 

“ I must leave you,” said Dom Valentin to Gaston : “ for 
the first time for a year I shall pray calmly, almost joy- 
fully ; but before leaving you, O my son (allow the use 
of this name to my affection, my gratitude, the sanctity of 
my habit), I still have a request to make of you ; your 
forgiveness does not suffice me: I require your confidence. 
. . . My son, what are you doing ? why are you waiting 
here?” 

Gaston again hesitated a moment; he looked at Dom 
Valentin, and found so much nobility and sweetness in his 
countenance, no longer disfigured by the tortures of con- 
science, that, yielding to the want of sympathy common to 
early youth, he replied in a tone of affectionate sadness, 

“ I intend to leave shortly for Brest, where my vessel and 
my duties await me.” 

“ And before leaving, you have come here merely to seek 
peace of mind, to call upon the God who grants consola- 


112 


CLOTILDE. 


tion?” asked the monk, regarding Gaston with a sort of 
penetrating anxiety. 

“ Before leaving, I wish to see her once more, and I am 
waiting.” 

“ Ah, it is as I feared!” cried Dora Valentin, a prey to 
fresh anguish. “ Oh, Gaston, I beseech you, in pity to her, 
to yourself, to me, do not see her again ! Yes, I well know 
it is cruel, it is frightful, when one love, one hope only is 
left, to leave thus without saying farewell. For this longed- 
for moment you would give your life, you would brave a 
thousand deaths ; but, Gaston, I conjure you, think of the 
dangers to which you expose this woman. Make this sacri- 
fice for her. Leave, leave without seeing her !” 

“ Not yet ; it is not possible,” replied Gaston, his eyes 
still fixed on the window in the direction of the pavilion 
of Mignard. 

Distant voices were still chanting, 

“Deus, Deus, meus, eripe me de manu peccatoris!” 

“Oh, I have but a minute longer!” resumed Dom Va- 
lentin. “I vainly seek words to persuade and save you. 
Gaston, you do not know M. de Varni’s character. You do 
not know that he is rich enough to buy all secrets, wicked 
enough to commit any crime. You do not know that his 
pitiless will annihilates all that defies it, conquers all that 
opposes it !” 

“ I know it all,” replied Gaston, without changing his 
position. 

“You do not know that he had the papers of M. de 
Perne stolen ; you do not know that he had Jean Peyrol 
assassinated !” cried the monk, pushed to the last extremity 
by his despair. 

“ I felt it, I was sure of it,” answered M. de Tervaz. 

“But he will kill you, you too! Oh, in pity do not 
again see her! Leave, leave at once !” 


WAITING. 


113 


As Dorn Valentin pronounced these last words the clock 
struck nine ; at the same time, in the distance, in the place 
his eyes eagerly sought, Gaston saw a little light, at first 
faint and trembling, but which gradually became fixed and 
shone stationary through the murky atmosphere. Imme- 
diately the young man turned toward Dom Valentin, who, 
while urging him, had clutched his clothing to detain him, 
and said, with energy, 

“My father, pray for her and for me, for now no earthly 
power can prevent our meeting.” 

And quickly seizing his cloak, he dashed out of the cell. 

“O my God! take my blood and my life, and save 
these poor children !” murmured Dom Valentin, falling on 
his knees on the stones. 

Without, the rain fell faster ; within l the voices might 
still be heard chanting in chorus, 

“Deus, Deus, meus, eripe me de mantj peccatoris! 

AVERTANTUR RETRORSUM QUI VOLUNT MIHI MALA !” 

10 * H 


IV. 


THE PAVILION OF MIGNARD. 

MAN less determined and less deeply in love than 



Gaston de Tervaz would scarcely have been able to 
divest himself of a certain anxiety as he descended the hill 
of Villeneuve and groped his way through the darkness. 
The weather was indeed frightful ; every minute Gaston 
felt blasts of warm, rainy wind flap his cloak and make his 
progress difficult. Sometimes his feet slipped on the damp, 
sloping ground, starting a stone, which rolled noisily from 
one declivity to another. Large puddles of water here 
and there reflected the pale light of the moon, which was 
visible at times through the openings in the clouds, like a 
disabled vessel flying across the waves. The buveur d’kuile, 
that ill-omened night-bird, which popular superstition has 
represented as haunting churches and living on the con- 
tents of the sacred lamps, made the flapping of its wings 
heard along the old walls as it uttered its plaintive note, 
like the wail of a sick child. 

As he neared the. Rhone, Gaston felt anxious. ' Alone 
and not knowing the country, he asked himself how 7 , at 
this hour and in such weather, he could cross to the island 
of Barthejasse. But as for some days past he had made 
an entire abnegation of personal will to obey Madame de 
Varni’s wishes passively, he concluded that she must have 
anticipated all this, and he was not mistaken. She had 
at first thought of sending Claude Rioux with his boat to 
meet Gaston. A natural feeling of modesty made her 
hesitate to confide in a man under such delicate circum- 


114 


TIIE PAVILION OF MIGNARD. 


115 


stances, no matter how devoted he might be to her. The 
faithful Julie, too, had readily proved to her that, if any 
espionage was to be feared, Claude would be the first object 
of suspicion. Baptistin hated him ; he was known to be 
constantly in Madame de Yarni’s service, and living in 
the open air, he was much too easily watched. Julie had 
consequently concluded that the painful and dangerous 
honor of being boatman for M. de Tervaz must again fall 
to her lot, and hers only. In vain Madame de Yarni had 
objected on account of the fatigue, the bad weather and 
the possible danger : the courageous girl had had a reply 
for each objection, and Clotilde ended by assuring her, with 
an embrace, that her offer answered to her secret wishes, 
the secret desires of her heart. 

It was therefore Julie Thibaut whom Gaston found 
standing on the bank awaiting his arrival. This time 
she made herself known at once, to shorten ceremony and 
hesitation. She pointed to the boat ; Gaston jumped into 
it and seized one of the oars. Julie took the other, and 
they turned their faces toward the island. 

The rain continued. Gaston and Julie exchanged few 
words;, the young man was so agitated that he could 
scarcely hold the oar. The strength of the current ren- 
dered the crossing difficult, but at length they landed. 
Julie remarked, and not without anxiety, that the Rhone 
was swollen, and that the iron ring from which she had 
detached the boat a few hours before was now level with 
the water. The river already washed the roots of the wil- 
lows which grew on the marshy shores, and dashed against 
the causeway with a sullen sound. Observing these signs 
with that intuition which rarely deceives the fishers and 
boatmen on the Rhone, Julie was seized, in spite of herself, 
with a vague and terrible fear. As for Gaston, he was so 
absorbed by his love, the thought that he was going to see 


116 


CLOTILDE. 


Madame de Varni lifted him so completely above real 
life, that he noticed nothing, and Julie had not the courage 
to communicate her observations. 

On landing, M. de Tervaz saw more distinctly the little 
lamp, which shone as from a lighthouse through the trees. 
A few minutes later he reached the pavilion of Mignard, 
guided by Julie, who, her eyes and ears on the alert, would 
not permit him to advance till she had satisfied herself 
that there was nothing to fear. The instant Gaston tapped 
lightly on one of the lower windows, which was level with 
the ground, the sash was noiselessly opened, and a little 
hand appeared from within. This burning hand drew in 
the young man, whose heart was beating so violently that 
he allowed himself to be led like a child or a blind man. 
Then it guided him, through the darkness, out of the room 
he had just entered. It led him up a winding staircase, 
pushed open a door, and Gaston found himself in a lighted 
room, which was Clotilde’s. Then only did she turn 
toward him, and he, without releasing the hand which 
he had recognized, fell at her feet. Jfilie, who had fol- 
lowed them on tip-toe, was about to retire. “Julie, my 
child, remain : you are wanted !” said Madame de Yarni 
to her. By these words she determined the character of 
this interview at once so mysterious and so virtuous, so 
bold and so chaste. 

The pavilion of Mignard was built on the plan of almost 
all the pleasure-houses which were owned either by the 
nobility or the wealthy commoners of Avignon, whether 
on the island of Barthelasse or on the river banks. The 
kitchen, the pantry and the servants’ apartments had 
been made in a basement, and formed a sort of subterra- 
nean gallery, which preserved the building from dampness. 
A semicircular terrace, surrounded by a slight balustrade, 
led to the entrance. From a narrow hall, opening on the 


TIIE PAVILION OF MIGNARD. 


117 


right into the parlor, on the left into the dining-room, 
ascended a winding staircase, elegant and charming in 
design. The same arrangement was repeated on the second 
floor. Above the dining-room was the chamber of the 
Marquis de Perne, which had not been opened since his 
death. Above the parlor was Clotilde’s apartment, an 
exquisite bedroom, so arranged as to profit in summer by 
the least breath of air,, in winter by the smallest ray of 
sunlight. But to render it more regular and spacious, the 
architect had been pleased to insert a small dressing-room 
in the thick wall. This was lighted only by a little oval 
window opening into the bedroom, and, half hidden by the 
canopy of the bed, was entered by a door concealed in 
the hangings. 

If, after the struggles and sufferings of which I have 
endeavored to give an idea, Madame de Varni could have 
taken an interest in anything in this world, it would have 
been the pavilion of Mignard. Could she still have tasted 
of happiness or joy, it would have been in again finding 
herself there. She loved this charming place for the 
memory of bygone days, when she was still free, and came 
there every spring with her father. There she recalled, 
above all, the last year which had preceded Gaston’s de- 
parture, for there, far from him, alone with her heart, in 
communion with the fertile, smiling nature around, she had 
felt love grow and increase in her young heart. This 
pavilion was exclusively her own. She had retained it in 
her marriage contract, and M. de Varni had scarcely ever 
put his foot in it. She came there, now and then, to 
spend a few days, with J ulie or Antoinette. These sweet 
but mournful days were the only recreation of her life. 
No one was admitted but the two young girls, and Madame 
de Varni allowed this fact to be attributed to aristocratic 
exclusiveness. She had been unwilling to confide the care 


118 


CLOTILDE. 


of the flower-beds to one of M. de Varni’s gardeners. She 
alone attended to her beloved flowers, assisted by Antoi- 
nette and Julie. She did not even take her maid there. 
One of her two companions always rendered her ail such 
services, and that, too, be it understood, without any 
thoughts of superiority or inferiority, but solely because 
she loved them ; and we never humiliate those we love. 

It was, then, in this room, heated by a clear, sparkling 
fire, dimly lighted by an alabaster lamp, filled with the 
delicate perfume of some late roses, that Madame de Varni 
received Gaston de Tervaz, wet by the storm and trembling 
with love and emotion. “Gaston,” she said, “now do 
you forgive me ?” 

“ Forgive you ! I — I love you !” murmured the kneel- 
ing young man, his lips pressing with transport the hand 
she yielded to him. 

Whilst these noble hearts were palpitating with the 
pure, intoxicating joy which robbed them, for a few hours 
at least, of the remembrance of their sufferings, a scene of 
a very different character was passing on the opposite bank 
of the Rhone. Two men, who seemed to have met by 
appointment, were talking in low tones under the first 
arch of the bridge of Saint Benezet. They were wrapped 
in large cloaks. One was tall, the other was small and 
thick-set. 

“What rascally weather! but my evening has not been 
lost,” said the smallest, securing his cloak, which was blow- 
ing open. 

“Well, Baptistin, what news?” asked the taller. 

“ The news is, monsieur, that we were not mistaken, and 
that the dove is in the nest, the hare in the hole.” 

“ Are you sure of it?” 

“Very sure. The bragging of that stupid Thibaut put 
me on the scent, and I am too good a dog to go astray. The 


TIIE PAVILION OF MIGNARD. 


119 


young man who came ten or twelve days ago to the inn au 
Poisson frais, and shut himself in with M. Ermel and that 
good-for-nothing Claude Rioux — may the devil take him ! — ■” 

“ Well ! that young man ?” 

“ Was M. de Tervaz ; no chance for doubt now remains ! 
After having passed an hour with them, he left for Ville- 
neuve, and I had reason to believe that he stayed at the 
Carthusian monastery, for the next day I saw Claude 
wandering around there. I then questioned the keeper 
of the inn where the young man left his horse. He only 
saw him a minute by the light of his lantern, but he de- 
scribed him to me : slender, scarcely twenty-two, wearing a 
uniform under his cloak, his eyes shining as with fever, 
a pale face, delicate appearance, his words quick and 
agitated.” 

“ That is he : I feel it by my hatred,” said M. de Varni, 
trembling. 

“Oh yes, monsieur, it is he,” replied Baptistin ; “and I 
was not foolish in advising you to feign to hasten your 
departure for Lambesc, where you must meet the cardinal. 
The precaution was not bad, and the day has been well em- 
ployed ; I answer for it.” 

“ Finish !” murmured the viscount, wringing his clenched 
hands under his cloak. 

“ Some hours after your pretended departure, Madame de 
Varni went to the pavilion of Mignard. I ask if this is 
weather to make the country pleasant ?” continued Baptis- 
tin, pointing to the sheet of water which was blown by the 
wind into their faces in spite of the large arch by which 
they were sheltered. “ Madame thinks I have gone with 
you, but, ’sdeath ! without her having suspected it I saw her 
embark with Julie; then I crossed the Rhone. I stationed 
myself behind a tree, between Villeneuve and the shore, 
and remained there motionless, like a poacher in the close. 


120 


CL 0 TILDE. 


About nine o’clock I saw a man walking as if he was 
crazy, and being drenched by the rain without appearing 
to feel it. I could see no more, for I did not care to expose 
myself to view, but at the expiration of a few minutes I 
distinctly heard the noise of oars. Good ! said I ; that is the 
thing ! I waited till the sound died in the distance, then I 
ran to my boat, which I had hidden a little lower in the 
willows. I recrossed the Rhone, and here I am. I have 
lost no time : it has just struck eleven.” 

“And I, who still refused to believe it,” cried M. de 
Yarni, “ I, who without deceiving myself in regard to the 
feelings of this woman, imagined that she was too honest 
to betray me, too proud to dishonor my name, I, who hes- 
itated to feign this departure and blushed at a pretence 
unworthy of her pride and mine — Fool, idiot that I 
was!” 

“ I told you that so soon as they thought there was 
nothing to fear they would meet,” answered Baptistin, 
with the low familiarity of a subordinate who has his mas- 
ter’s secrets in his possession. 

“ Oh, I will kill them both !” exclaimed the viscount, in 
a terrible rage ; “ I will kill them, and my regret is that 
I am unable to invent, at any price, a punishment which 
will sufficiently torture them and revenge me! Oh, that 
man, how I detest him ! and that woman, how I hate her! 
To have obtained her, to have heaped falsehood and crime 
to attain that end, and to be unable to make myself be- 
loved ! I, to whom nothing was before impossible ! Ah, 
I can at last give form to my revenge, a shape to my 
hatred ! How often during those struggles in which she 
opposed an icy barrier to my passionate desires, when I 
vainly asked one look from her eyes, one smile from her 
lips, when I felt the phantom of Gaston de Tervaz rise be- 
tween her and myself— how often have I wished this Gaston 


THE PAVILION OF MIGNAED. 


121 


might be there that I might vent on him my powerless 
rage ! And later, when I knew he was alive, how many 
times have I vowed that should he reach here I would at 
last have the joy to sei?e, to strangle, to annihilate this 
abhorred phantom ! — Oh, that woman ! she has mortified 
me, repulsed, irritated, damned me! — I feel that had she 
loved me I could have reformed. No matter how bad the 
violence of my passions, the power of my wealth, the des- 
potism of my will, have made me, the love of this woman 
could still have saved me ! She is so beautiful that there 
is that about her which would damn a saved or save a 
damned ! Yes, reformed, purified by her love, I could do 
anything, even become good : — it is so easy to be so when 
we feel ourselves beloved ! I would perhaps have had a 
son — a son, the pride of my heart, the hope of my family, 
the joy of my old age. No one can remain bad who has 
a son. I would have wiped out my faults with alms, I 
would have built churches, I would have done so much 
good that God would have forgiven me and the spectre 
of Jean Peyrol would have vanished from my dreams. To 
have been loved by that woman would have been the sal- 
vation of my soul, and she loves him : — him — and they are 
together! Yes, you see, Baptistin, he must die, and I 
swear to you that I will kill him !” 

“ Well, this is the time to start,” said Baptistin, who was 
too low a villain to understand anything of the viscount’s 
meaning. “ Before we can reach the pavilion of Mignard 
it will be midnight. Why do we wait ?” 

“ Yes, let us go,” answered M. de Varni. “ Is your boat 
near here ?” 

“ Twenty steps off. There, under the causeway.” 

They approached the place Baptistin designated. At 
the sight of his boat, which the south wind was tossing 
violently, and the end of which was already above the 
11 


122 


CLOTILDE. 


level of the quay, the gamekeeper made a movement of 
surprise. He measured with his oar the narrow portion 
still dry which the Rhone was visibly submerging, glanced 
at the sky, darker and murkier than before, then crossing 
his arms and turning toward M. de Varni, he said, coolly, 

“ M. de Varni, you desire to kill M. de Tervaz ?” 

“ You know it ; I have already told you.” 

“ And yet is there nothing displeasing to you in the idea 
of a common murder ? Are you sure the night will keep 
the secret ? Ho you not dread scandal, discovery, dishonor 
for madame la viscountess, for yourself, for that fair name 
of which you are so justly proud?” 

M. de Varni trembled. Baptistin had touched the 
tender spot, the open wound. 

“ I have guessed right, have I not?” inquired the latter. 

“Yes; but to what end, since it is not possible to do 
otherwise ? Let us be revenged on M. de Tervaz, and 
forget the rest. ...” 

“ And if there were means to do otherwise ?” 

“Losing no part of my revenge?” 

“ Making it more silent, more secret, more terrible !” 

“ What mean you ?” 

Instead of answering, Baptistin led his master to the 
edge of the causeway. He pointed to the Rhone, which 
was rising with inconceivable rapidity. Its muddy, yellow 
water reached their feet in its restless agitation. Then 
with a gesture he showed him the atmospheric, signs, which 
seemed to foretell a second deluge, and he murmured some 
words in M. de Varni’s ear, but so low, so softly, that the 
demons alone could catch them. 

“You are right; that would be much better,” answered 
the viscount ; and both of them, quitting the bank of the 
Rhone, returned to the town, and were soon lost in the 
darkness. 


THE PAVILION OF MIGNARD. 


123 


The hours rolled away. As they bring grief or joy, they 
lag or fly, they are centuries or seconds. To Gaston and 
Madame de Varni they had passed like a dream. A few 
minutes more, and the night would be over. 

Julie Thibaut had not dared to disobey when Clotilde 
told her to remain in the room ; but as God has endowed 
even women of an inferior rank with that exquisite delicacy 
which quickens their intuitions, the good Julie, who had 
during her poor and laborious life acquired the habit of 
sleeping or waking at her will, now determined to sleep, 
and in a short time, fatigue and the lateness of the hour 
coming to her aid, she sank into a deep slumber. 

Nothing could be imagined more poetical or more 
charming than this lovely girl, half sinking in her chair, 
half leaning against the wall, and supporting her beautiful 
head on her bent arm. The rich tresses of her raven hair, 
with its purplish shadows, had escaped from under her cap 
and reached almost to the floor. Her long lashes swept 
the warm, rich colors of her cheeks with their silken 
fringes, and a slight, sweet smile played around her rosy 
lips, as if the angel of peaceful slumber had touched her 
with his wing. 

Gaston and Madame de Yarni had scarcely changed 
their positions. Still on his knees, Gaston had gradually 
slipped on to the carpet ; his arm, passed around Clotilde’s 
slender w r aist, had little by little drawn her nearer, and 
leaning on M. de Tervaz’ brow, she could gaze into his 
eyes and mingle her sighs with his. Their tightly-clasped 
hands completed by their tender pressures the sense of 
their words and their silences. Julie’s gentle regular 
breathing served as an accompaniment to this chaste and 
impassioned scene. Divine ecstasies of reciprocated love ! 
He who has never tasted them has not the right to say 
that he has lived. 


124 


CLOTILDE. 


“Gaston,” murmured Madame de Varni, “we see each 
other for the last time in this world ; in a few hours you 
will leave, in a few days you will be far away, but this 
meeting will have done us both good. Now we can die, 
I, with your forgiveness, you, with my love, both less 
unhappy and more resigned.” 

“ Ah, do not tell me of what will be in a few hours ! Let 
me think that after these moments there will be nothing !” 

“You still love me, then?” asked the young woman, 
whose fervent gaze seemed to sink in the depths of Gas- 
ton’s soul. 

“ A thousand times better than when I hoped !” 

“ Thanks, my friend ; your words give me the only hap- 
piness I can taste here below. To be beloved by you was 
life, but to hear you in these last moments repeat to me 
those sweet words, it is more than life, Gaston, it is heaven! 
Ah, I have often felt that our love was too deep for this 
world : it required something boundless as our hearts, im- 
mortal as our souls. Did it not seem to you that a vulgar 
happiness would be too little for our passion, that our 
trembling arms would close on vacancy, calling for un- 
known bliss? Yes, Gaston, heaven — heaven where nothing 
limits or forbids the insatiable rapture of the heart — 
heaven is henceforth the country of our love. Let us 
date this new affection from this last night! But you 
know, my friend, heaven is barred to those who hate ; let 
us, then, forgive the man who has done us so much injury, 
whose name I bear. Let us cease to hate him, that we 
may still love after this life. Oh, had I not again seen 
you, had you repulsed me, had I lost all, even your love, 
. . . oh! I should have been pitiless, I would have 
cursed M. de Yarni till my latest breath, I would have 
died with rebellion in my heart, curses on my lips. . . . 
But I see you once more, I again find you ; my hatred is 


THE PAVILION OF MIGNARD. 


125 


lost in this pure flame, and I- forgive M. de Varni, because 
I love you !” 

At this moment the chamber-clock struck four. * 

“ Gaston,” said Clotilde, rising, “ it is time to part ; we 
need all our strength ; let us shorten these farewells. I 
will awaken this dear child.” She approached the young 
girl, and touching her lightly on the shoulder, whispered, 
“Julie!” Julie rose quickly, rubbed her eyes, looked to 
right and left like a person who seeks to collect her ideas, 
then running to the clock, 

“Ah ! miserable ! I have slept too long !” she cried. 
“What do you fear?” replied Madame de Varni; “day 
is still distant. M. de Tervaz will have left for Villeneuve 
before dawn begins to break.” 

“It is not that! it is not that!” said Julie, with in- 
creasing agitation, and rushing to the window, she threw 
the shutters wide open. A cry of horror escaped her, at 
the same time terrifying Gaston and Clotilde. They 
looked, and in their turn uttered a cry of dismay. 

It was an alarming sight. The two arms of the Rhone 
had united during the night, and entirely covered the 
island of Barthelasse. By the dim light of the moon, 
which was sinking behind the horizon in its murky cover- 
ing of mist and clouds, the water could be seen on all 
sides surrounding the pavilion of Mignard, the ground- 
floor of which was already submerged to the depth of six 
feet. The sides of the green-house had given way, and 
the plants, half washed from their pots, floated here and 
there like the hair of the drowning. The remains of heaps 
of straw piled in places formed floating islands. But for 
the rapidity of the current, it might have been mistaken 
for the open sea, for the eye could see only the clouds, the 
rain and the Bhone. From time to time the surging of 
the water showed a tree-trunk, a cask, a beam, a carcass, 


126 


CLOTILDE. 


floating like signs of a wreck; the mulberries, the wil- 
lows and the poplars raised their rustling, shivering heads 
above the water. Through the open window might be 
heard the farmers’ cries of distress as they were surprised 
by the inundation ; the neighing of horses as the river 
reached them in their stables ; the reports of guns shot on 
the roofs as signals for help, and as the bass accompaniment 
to the mournful concert, the bells of Villeneuve and Avig- 
non, whose distant sound resembled the funeral knell of a 
country startled from its sleep to find itself condemned to 
death.* 

M. de Tervaz and Madame de Varni stood motionless in 
the embrasure of the window, scarcely crediting their eyes. 
Julie, who seemed the most unhappy, turned, weeping, to 
Clotilde, and said, 

“ Oh, my dear lady, I am to blame. On bringing M. 
de Tervaz here last evening, I saw that the weather was 
fearful, the Rhone swollen, and that the night would be ter-' 
rible, but he seemed so happy, and you awaited him with 
so much affection, that I had not the courage to spoil those 
sweet hours. Miserable fool that I was! I should have 
warned you, I should have watched over you. Seeing you 
again together, I remembered nothing but your happi- 
ness. That you might be more private I slept, think- 
ing to awaken in time, — and now it is too late! What 
will become of us?” And Julie wrung her hands in 
despair. 

“Dear child, it is for us to ask your pardon,” answered 
Madame de Varni, pressing her to her heart. “ What is 
death to M. de Tervaz and to me, who will never meet 
again ? But you, so young and so lovely, you, who might 

* The inundation of the 25th November, 1755, is the most terrible 
mentioned in the history of the province. The Rhone rose eighteen 
feet in one night. 


TIIE PAVILION OF MIONARD. 


127 


still be so happy, you, who are here only on account of 
your devotion to us, — oh must you, too, perish for us — 
with us ?” 

“ Do not think of me,” said Julie. “ If you must perish, 
I rejoice to follow you. What happiness can I look forward 
to in this world ? I love Claude. My father will not let 
me marry him, and I am too good a daughter to disobey. 
You see it is better for me to die.” 

“But, Julie, you deceive yourself,” said Madame de 
Yarni, too much agitated to think of the full meaning of 
her w T ords. “ Heretofore, the excess of my sufferings has 
rendered me egotistical. I did not think of the trials of 
others, because I was absorbed in my own. Now, pacified, 
softened by these hours of love and forgiveness, do you 
know what was my first project? To remove the obstacles 
which separate Antoinette and Dominique, and you and 
Claude. That was the reward which I had intended for 
your affection, your devotion, and promised myself for my 
return to good feelings. Child, do you think I am not 
rich enough to give myself this last happiness?” 

“ Oh, madame,” exclaimed Julie, in a tone of affectionate 
reproach, “ why tell me that ? Now I regret life.” And 
two tears fell from her black eyes; but in a short time, 
gaining new courage from this new hope, she said, “ Is 
there, then, no chance of salvation? Do you not think 
thev will come in boats from the Hotel de Yarni to seek 
us?” 

“ Alas ! it is not likely. In order to avert all suspicion, 
I gave my women two days’ holiday. Most of the servants 
have gone with M. de Varni ; the others do not even know 
that I have left the hotel. I thought I could not take too 
many precautions.” 

“And I, too; for the sake of greater prudence, I did 
not tell Claude we were coming to the pavilion of Mig- 


128 


CL 0 TILDE. 


nard. But still were I in his place I think I would guess 
it.” 

“ Ah ! that thread is too slight to attach hope to it.” 

“We must, then, die. Let us pray to the good God!” 
replied Julie, kneeling. 

“Yes, die!” said Gaston, who till then had been silent, 
but his eyes now brilliant with enthusiasm — “ Yes, die ! 
As we cannot be united in life, we will be united in death. 
It is the merciful God who sends us this joy. Clotilde, I 
would have asked of the ocean a death far from you. The 
ocean comes to find me here and engulf me in your arms. 
Yes, God is good, and I thank him.” 

“But before you die,” answered Clotilde, seizing his 
hands with superhuman strength, “ I would once again tell 
you that I love you. Do you know, Gaston, a little while 
since, I did not tell it as I feel it, as I wish to ? I repressed 
the yearnings of my heart. We were still living beings, 
and earthly thoughts could still influence us. But at this 
moment, in the face of the death which threatens us, in 
the sight of that angel who is praying for us, nothing can 
exist which is not pure and holy. I love you, and that 
which I to-night refused you I now ask of you. Gaston, a 
kiss !” 

The lips of the young man for an instant touched Clo- 
tilde’s, then suddenly rising and putting her hand on his 
shoulder, “Now on our knees!” said she; “the minutes 
which remain to us should be God’s alone !” 

They kneeled together near Julie. Madame de Varni 
repeated the prayers for the dying; Gaston and Julie 
.responded. 

The Rhone still rose; already, by leaning out of the 
window and extending the arm, the water might be touched 
with the hand ; already, too, the early dawn was beginning 
to break and struggling with the waning light of the moon. 


THE PAVILION OF MIGNAHD. 


129 


This dull, lurid twilight rendered the scene of desolation, 
which it lit up, still more ghastly. 

Suddenly they heard the sound of oars. Julie sprang 
like a lioness to the window looking toward Villeneuve. 

“We are saved !” cried she; “here is Claude. Ah, I 
well knew that he would guess, and that he would come !” 

She seemed less happy to escape death than proud to be 
saved by her lover. But at the same time Madame de 
Varni, who was looking toward Avignon, exclaimed, with 
an expression of terrible anguish, “We are lost! Here is 
my husband with Baptistin !” 

It was true ; by the light of the dawning day the two 
boats might be distinctly seen coming toward them. By 
their almost equal rapidity it was easy to foresee that they 
would reach the pavilion of Mignard almost at the same 
moment. 

“O my God! what shall we do?” repeated Madame de 
Varni. 

“Monsieur le Viscount may know nothing,” replied 
Julie. “Some obstacle, perhaps the bad weather, may 
have obliged him to retrace his road yesterday. Not hav- 
ing found you in Avignon, he may have understood that 
you were here. He thinks that you are here alone, and 
comes only to bring relief.” 

“Julie, I tell you I am afraid,” answered Madame de 
Varni, who already felt oppressed by the evil influence of 
her husband. 

“ Let us think ! let us not lose our presence of mind !” 
said the young girl, quickly forcing herself to appear calm. 
“ M. de Tervaz, hide yourself in this closet and she opened 
the dressing-room ; then she added, “ If M. de Varni knows 
nothing, we may yet save all. We will go on his boat. I 
will make a sign to Claude; he will understand, can feign 
to return to Villeneuve, and when we are far enough off he 

I 


130 


CLO TILDE. 


can return in time to take M. Gaston away. I will find 
means of slipping the key of the dressing-room into Claude’s 
hand ; in any case, he can break it open by a good knock. 
But here they are ; there is not a moment to lose.” 

She pushed Gaston into the dressing-room, locked it, and 
hid the key under her neckerchief. 

The next instant, M. de Varni, with Baptistin, touched 
one side of the pavilion, and Claude the other. The Bhone 
was rising so rapidly that the boats were almost on a level 
with the second story. The head of M. de Yarni, who was 
tall, entirely passed the window-sill, and he was able to 
look into the room. 

His manner was that of a man who hastens to save a 
beloved woman from a frightful, unexpected danger. 

“ God be praised !” said he ; ‘‘I am here in time. Oh, 
dear friend, how wrong you are to cause us such anxiety ! 
What a happy thing that the overflowing of all the rivers 
forced me to retrace my steps last evening ! I would have 
been in dreadful agony of mind !” and he added, pointing 
to Claude, whose anxious face appeared at the other win- 
dow, “to say nothing of how distressing it would have 
been to me had you been saved by any one but myself!” 

“ He knows nothing,” thought Julie. 

“He knows all,” said Clotilcle to herself. 

“ Well, monsieur, let us go at once,” answered she aloud, 
seeking to conceal her agitation. “ I assure you I am very 
much alarmed, and long to find myself on dry ground.” 

“Oh no!” replied the viscount. “How that we both 
are more at ease I Tvould have you leave this room as con- 
veniently as possible. Jump from that height at the risk 
of hurting yourself! Fie, fie ! we will wait till the Bhone, 
like a respectful vassal, raises this boat t<* your feet. A 
few minutes longer and I will only need to offer you my 
hand to help you out ; you will pass quietly and on a level 


TIIE PAVILION OF MIGNARD. 


131 


footing from your room into your carriage. Are you not 
of my mind ?” 

The horror-struck viscountess vainly sought to reply. 
Baptistin, immovable, seemed a machine in his master’s 
service. Julie supported Madame de Varni, whom she 
felt growing weaker, and pressed her hand to impart to 
her a little courage, turning her eyes toward Claude, who, 
growing more and more anxious, questioned her face to 
learn what he should do. In the dressing-room was no 
movement, no sound. 

Then followed ten minutes which cannot be described. 

At length the Rhone reached the point M. de Varni 
had designated. Clotilde and Julie felt under their feet 
the dampness of the carpet, which the water was beginning 
to moisten. The window-sill was scarcely above the sur- 
face of the river. 

“This is the moment!” said the viscount, calm and 
smiling. “ Julie, hand me a chair.” 

The young girl took one of the chairs in the room and 
gave it to him. M. de Varni rested it on the boat as 
securely as possible. 

“That is it,” said he. “Now help madame, whom 
the fear of this cursed Rhone has robbed of her strength. 
Very good ! raise her. . . . Now, dear friend, let yourself 
fall into arms happy to bear so sweet a burden. . . . 
Good ! there you are !” 

Madame de Varni had obeyed mechanically, and now 
found herself seated in the boat. 

“Now, Julie, for you,” continued the viscount. “Oh, 
I am not anxious about you ; you are a strong, agile per- 
son, always good, always devoted. I will do something, 
too, which will not displease you. Claude, come this 
way!” 

Madame de Varni looked at her husband with renewed 


132 


CLOTILDE. 


anguish. Claude came rapidly round the pavilion, and 
reached them with a few bold strokes. 

v “ Claude,” s-aid the viscount, with the air of a good 
prince, “it is just that you should be rewarded for your 
zeal. Get into our boat, and confide yours to Baptistin. 
You shall have the honor and the pleasure of taking us 
back to Avignon. Am I not giving you the boatman 
you prefer?” he added, in a tone of affectionate gallantry, 
addressing Clotilde and Julie. 

They felt a shudder of terror and death pass through 
their veins. 

“ But, monsieur, there is no need to make any change,” 
murmured Madame de Yarni. 

“ Oh ! I do not fear to annoy you. I know I am mak- 
ing, on the contrary, the arrangement best calculated to 
please. Claude is a strong fellow, and we could not be 
in better hands. My poor Baptistin is back-broken with 
fatigue, and gamekeepers, too, are only boatmen at inter- 
vals. He will remain here, and then return alone, and 
slowly.” 

“ But, monsieur — ” 

4 “ Ah, yes, I understand. It grieves you to leave so 
many pretty things which will be broken or washed away. 
But you have only to speak : if there is any precious article 
in the pavilion which you wish to save from the wreck, 
name it; Baptistin will take charge of it, he is skilful 
and faithful, you will be satisfied.” 

A diabolical smile rose to Baptistin’s pale face. 

“Let us go, Claude, my friend,” continued the vis- 
count, still in the same tone ; “ get into our boat and take 
the oars. You look like a statue. Are you not happy 
to contribute to the safety of Madame de Yarni and your 
dear Julie? Ah, how silent you are! We know your 
intentions !” 


THE PAVILION OF MIGNARD. 


133 


Claude, who vainly sought a sign, a counter-order, in 
Clotilde’s fascinated eyes, yielded to the infernal power 
which this man seemed at that moment to exert over all 
the actors in this scene. He passed into M. de Varni’s 
boat; Baptistin had already jumped into his. Immediately 
the viscount, as if he had waited for this instant, gave a 
heavy stroke with the oar, and the boat was ten steps from 
the pavilion of Mignard. 

“Stop!” cried Madame de Varni. 

“Ah, pardon, I forgot!” said her husband. “Baptis- 
tin, listen to the wishes of Madame de Varni. Madame, 
give your orders. Ho you leave in your room or else- 
where anything you wished saved from the fury of the 
Rhone?” 

Madame de Varni looked at him. Through the cour- 
teous smile which seemed stereotyped on his face she read 
the pitiless heart this false gaiety concealed, and in a 
scarcely audible voice she let fall the one word, 

“ Nothing.” 

Julie was pale as a corpse. 

“Well, then, let us go, and row with all your might,” 
said M. de Varni, turning toward Claude and resuming 
the imperious tone it was impossible to resist. 

The Rhone had now almost submerged the second story. 
Claude seemed to understand that a last chance of salva- 
tion depended on the swiftness of his boat ; he rowed so en- 
ergetically that at the expiration of a quarter of an hour he 
landed them a few steps below the Hotel de Varni, which 
they could still reach on dry land. 

During the passage Clotilde had had an opportunity to 
whisper in Julie’s ear, “Gaston, the key, the pavilion, 
Claude.” 

At the moment of their landing Julie slipped the key 
of the dressing-room into Claude’s hand, made a sign, said 
12 


134 


CLOTILDE. 


a word to him, and he returned more quickly than he had 
come. The viscount entered the hotel with his wife, and 
seemed to have no further anxiety. 

Some minutes later Claude Rioux approached the pa- 
vilion, but when a few feet from it, as he was rounding a 
group of enormous elms, whose lofty tops defied the freshet, 
a man hidden in the branches struck him lustily on the 
head with an oar. Claude fell, stunned, and Baptistin — for 
it was he — springing into the boat with the agility of a 
tiger, bound him hand and foot before the unfortunate man 
had recovered his senses ; then he again turned the boat 
toward Avignon. M. de Yarni was probably expecting 
him ; he had left his house, and Baptistin found him on 
the bank. 

“ Monsieur,” said he, pointing to Claude, who lay in the 
bottom of the boat so silent and so motionless that he re- 
sembled a corpse — “ Monsieur, I bring you a prize. Here 
is a fellow who desired to profit by the inundation to 
make his fortune. I surprised him at the moment he was 
about getting into the pavilion of Mignard.” 

“ Claude Rioux,” said M. de- Yarni, “ what were you 
going to do in the pavilion of Mignard?” 

“To steal,” answered Claude, unhesitatingly. 

“Steal? you! I thought you honest!” replied the vis- 
count, who seemed to take frightful pleasure in torturing 
him. 

“ I was poor ; I love Julie ; I wished to become rich, so 
that her father would allow me to marry her.” 

Ho one was ever able to obtain another word from him. 
Julie Thibaut did not utter a syllable in contradiction of 
this avowal of Claude’s. He was put into prison. The 
day of his trial, M. de Yarni met Clotilde descending the 
staircase of his hotel like a lunatic, her face haggard, her 
eyes burning with excitement. 


THE PAVILION OF MIGNARD. 


135 


“ Where are you going?” asked he, stopping her with 
his arm. 

“To speak to the judges.” 

“ If you say one word, I will have Claude condemned to 
death, and you will be dishonored !” 

At the same time he handed her the little key of the 
dressing-room, which Baptistin had taken from Claude’s 
pocket. 

She hesitated. 

“Think of it,” he said — “for Claude, death — for you, 
dishonor!” 

“Dishonor!” murmured the viscountess, and she turned 
and went back to her room. 

Claude Rioux was condemned to five years at the galleys. 

The inundation of the 25th of November, 1755, lasted 
fifteen days. The Rhone rose several feet above the light- 
ning-rod which surmounted the roof of the pavilion of 
Mignard. The following night the pavilion fell, crushed 
by the weight of the water, and all it contained was buried 
beneath its ruins. 


Y. 


THE WILL. 

A BOUT ten months had passed since the frightful scene 
I have just traced. 

It was early in October, 1756. On a lovely evening, 
when the still intense heat of summer mingled with and 
was subdued by the melancholy sweetness of .autumn, two 
females were walking at a short distance from one of those 
charming villas which enliven the hill and valley of 
Hyeres with their graceful outlines. They were the Vis- 
countess de Varni and Julie Thibaut, her faithful com- 
panion. 

It would have required a clairvoyant eye, the eye of a 
lover or an enemy, to recognize the beautiful Clotilde in the 
pale shadow who thus walked with slow steps, supported by 
Julie, inhaling the cool evening air with a sort of mechani- 
cal avidity. Her sunken cheeks made her eyes look dis- 
proportionately large, and fever gave them an unusual 
brilliancy. Under the heavy braids of her hair might 
be seen drops of cold perspiration, which beaded forehead 
arid temple, rendering her pallor more noticeable. Her 
skin, her lips and her teeth were of the same color. A 
short, dry cough, almost incessant, forced her to stop from 
time to time, and painted the projecting bones of her hol- 
low, faded cheeks with a bright hectic flush. Julie Thi- 
baut, on the contrary, was, if possible, more beautiful than 
when we last saw her. Whilst the noble lady had been 
slowly consumed by her grief, the child of the people had 
found in hers the only halo she needed, that ideal expres- 
136 


THE WILL. 


137 


sion which suffering adds to beauty. That generous nature, 
that rich, powerful form, had resisted the dreadful blow, and 
in the struggle they had been ennobled, idealized. Instead 
of the magnificent peasant of Provence or Italy, such as 
she has been depicted on canvas by the pencil of Leopold 
Robert, it was the sublime Madonna of Murillo. 

They walked, or rather Julie supported the unsteady 
steps of Madame de Varni, along one of those pretty, pic- 
turesque pathways made by the dry beds of watercourses in 
that happy portion of Provence called, at the present day, 
the department of Var. That pure sky, that exquisite 
landscape, the eternal youth of Southern nature, contrasted 
with Madame de Varni’s dying condition and with the deep, 
irreparable sadness which could be read on the face of these 
two women. At every ten steps they halted to give Clo- 
tilde time to take breath. 

During one of these halts the viscountess extended one 
arm toward the setting sun, in the direction of Toulon,* 
and said, in a hoarse voice, catching her breath, 

“ Claude is there.” 

“ Why speak of him ? I said nothing about him to 
you,” answered Julie, with the sad resignation of a 
wounded dog as he looks up at his master. 

“ But I wish to speak of it,” returned Madame de Varni. 
“ I wish always to recall to my mind that you and Claude 
have been sublime, and that I have been miserable, cow- 
ardly, infamous.” 

“But you could have prevented nothing,” replied the 
young girl, gently. 

" That is true. Do you remember that smile of M. de 
Varni’s, those honeyed words, which I felt cut me to the 

* According to an agreement between the vice-legate and the 
French government, the criminals in the Com tat Venaissin, con- 
demned to the galleys, undergo their punishment at Toulon. 


138 


CLOTILDE. 


heart like the poisoned blade of a dagger? Oh, were I to 
live a hundred years — as many years as hours still remain to 
me — I would always have the pitiless image of that man 
before my eyes as he said to Claude, ‘Change boats with 
Baptistin !’ ” 

“For pity’s sake, my dear lady, drive away these 
thoughts.! They are killing you.” 

“ And what would I do if they did not kill me ?” an- 
swered Madame de Varni, with the laugh of a dying per- 
son. “ Do you think, my poor sacrificed friend, that I 
would be able to raise my eyes to yours if I was not sure 
of death? And yet that is not enough; I would have 
wished still more. ...” 

“Still more?” 

“Yes, Julie, it is not only the remembrance of Gaston’s 
horrible death which causes me in my last days such suf- 
ferings and torture; it is not only the thought of the 
injury I have done you both — to Claude, so devoted, to 
you, so courageous; — it is not even the mortification my 
cowardice causes me. No, it is none of those things. That 
which tortures, kills me, is — that I die unrevenged.” 

“ But,” said Julie, “ is not Monsieur le Viscount already 
punished? Since those terrible events you have been 
deaf and dumb to him ; he has not once heard the sound 
of your voice. You have rendered his house so melan- 
choly that he has finally become almost as sad as yourself. 
Your doctor even guessed that there was some frightful 
secret between you, some secret of hatred. Did he not 
remark that M. de Varni’s entrance into your room alone 
sufficed to increase your fever twofold ?” 

“ The good doctor !” interrupted Clotilde. “ It is to him 
that I owe my deliverance, at last, from that hated pres- 
ence. He it was who, seeing us every day face to face in 
that house silent as the tomb, felt that I had more than 


THE WILL. 


139 


an ordinary disease. He recommended M. de Varni to 
send me to breathe warmer air if he did not wish to see me 
die without remedy and himself sink into a decline. M. 
de Varni obeyed ; then he obtained from the v ice-legate 
a mission to Paris, where he doubtless tries to drown in 
pleasures all these recollections of crime and death. Let 
him succeed if he can. I do not think of that. He is far, 
far from me ; I shall have time to die before he returns ; 
for the present, I ask nothing more of him.” 

“And what more could we have?” said Julie, bitterly. 

“What more? Nothing, — it is this thought that ren- 
ders my agony a hundredfold more horrible. Oh, when 
I remember that I have yet but a few days to live, that 
M. de Varni is scarcely thirty-three years old, that a new 
future will open before him, that he will be free, will 
marry again, have children, that new ties will attach him 
to life, that I shall be to him but a terrible and buried 
dream of the past, that he will perhaps be happy, and 
that I shall not be avenged ! . . . Revenge ! That is the 
only word, the only idea, that can still warm my blood — 
retard the death which draws near.” 

“We remain, and we will not forget,” murmured Julie. 

“To what end? You alone can understand me, but you 
are but a woman ; poor Antoinette can only weep and 
pray. Dominique Ermel is brave, but his heart was not 
touched like ours ; he has not, he cannot have, this energy 
of hatred, this deep, burning, undying feeling, which be- 
comes the moving motive of a whole life, which makes a 
man an instrument in the service of a thought, which usurps 
his mind and his soul, his courage and strength, always 
directing them in the same way, toward the same end. 
Ah ! to be sure of being avfenged as I desire, of leaving 
behind me a second self, can you not guess whom I re- 
quire ? Can you not guess what name this balmy breeze 


140 


CLOTILDE. 


whispers constantly in my ear?” And she again stretched 
out her arm toward Toulon. 

“Claude!” cried Julie, her eyes sparkling. 

“Yes, Claude,” repeated Madame de Varni. 

At the same moment, as if this cry of love and hatred 
had possessed a magic power, the two women saw a thicket 
of pomegranates and laurels near them violently shaken, 
and a man emerged, whom both instantly recognized. It 
was Claude Rioux. 

To any but themselves his appearance would have been 
anything but reassuring. He wore the costume of a galley- 
slave; his garments were ragged, soiled, mud-stained and 
torn in shreds by the difficulties of his escape ; his beard, 
which had grown long, and was in strong contrast with 
his closely-cut hair, gave his energetic countenance an 
expression of almost savage harshness. His right leg, 
which r had dragged the ball, was stained with blood, and 
his walk was consequently uneven. Ten months had suf- 
ficed to transform Claude. He was no longer the hand- 
some, manly fisher of the banks of the Rhone ; he was a 
man banished from society, and who, by the extreme wick- 
edness through which he had been made to suffer, felt 
himself urged to retaliation and revolt. Resentment, 
hatred, the struggle of devotion against infamy, the con- 
tact with bad men, the combat of good and evil passions 
in a strong heart, had all combined to produce this sad 
transformation. Claude Rioux would have inspired terror 
in any one who did not know how much he merited ad- 
miration and pity. It is readily understood that Julie did 
not make all these distinctions; she threw herself in his 
arms, crying, “ God has had pity on me ! I see you again, 
and we will part no more !” 

“You think so?” he answered, with a bitter sneer. 
“You do not know, my poor Julie, that the galleys have 


THE WILL. 


141 


longer arms than I have legs. I have escaped because 
I desired to see you, was it but for an hour, a minute.” 

“You knew, then, that we were at Hyeres?” 

“Yes ; the other evening, while working on the wharf, I 
thought I recognized at some distance a servant wearing 
madame’s livery. The sight of that livery roused in my 
heart the only feeling which I have known for ten months, 
save of grief, despair or rage. On account of my good 
conduct, they have relaxed the severity a little, and 
allowed me to work with the liberated, and I had an 
opportunity to promise one of them the half of my little 
savings if, without letting it be known, he could follow the 
steps of that servant, see wher.e he stopped and bring me 
word. The commission was well executed. The next day 
I learned that you were here ; that was yesterday, and this 
morning I escaped. I will not enter into the particulars 
of my escape ; if you have known one, you have known a 
hundred : they are always different, yet always the same. 
But I do not deceive myself; in twenty-four hours from 
now I shall be retaken. Without papers and without a 
change of clothing, there is no way to elude pursuit. I 
am sure it is already beginning. . . . Stop, do you hear ?” 

The air was so still and clear that in spite of the dis- 
tance they could distinctly hear the report of three can- 
non-shots, fired at regular intervals. 

“ They are shooting for me,” resumed Claude. “ Those 
three reports mean that a galley-slave is missing at the 
evening roll-call. What does it matter? Julie, I was 
determined to see you once more; I would have set fire to 
the arsenal sooner than have given it up !” 

“ Oh, must I then lose you after having seen you again?” 
cried Julie, looking at Madame de Varni as if she ex- 
pected help from her. Madame de Yarni remained mo- 
tionless. 


142 


CL 0 TILDE. 


“Lose me,” replied Claude, “and this time for ever, 
for attempts to escape are punished by perpetual slavery. 
Julie, perhaps it is better now that we should be sepa- 
rated ; I am no longer worthy of you. Although I entered 
pure and honest into that den of crime and vice, it seems 
to me that the air I breathe there will make me as wicked 
as the others. And why not?” added he, with growing 
excitement ; “ of what use is it to be good ? Is it not the 
wicked who prosper? Power, strength, happiness — are 
they not for them, for them alone ? See, Baptistin tri- 
umphs, M. de Varni is happy, and madame is dying. 
M. de Tervaz perished in horrible sufferings ; and we — we 
lovt hopelessly, and I am at the galleys! Truly, iff is 
enough to disgust one with being honest !” 

“ Hush, unhappy man ! you frighten me,” interrupted 
Julie. 

“Let him say on,” said Madame de Yarni, who listened 
eagerly to every word Claude spoke. 

“My resolution is taken,” continued the latter. “I 
wished to see you, I wished to tell you that I still loved 
you, and now, rather than weary myself with useless efforts 
to elude pursuit, I will give myself up ; then to end it, to 
shorten my punishment, I will stab some galley-guard, 
and my reckoning will soon be over — condemned to death, 
executed within twenty-four hours — I will suffer no 
longer.” 

“ O my God, my God ! it is not Claude. It is a demon 
who speaks by his mouth,” said Julie, in anguish. 

“ That is really your resolution ?” suddenly asked Mad- 
ame de Varni, fixing on Claude her eyes, burning with 
fever. 

“ Yes.” 

“ In truth, Claude, then you heartily despise me ?” 

“ I, madame !” exclaimed he, in great surprise. 


THE WILL. 


143 


“ Because I have accepted your sacrifice rather than 
betray myself— because I have allowed you to be con- 
demned, that I might guard my honor unspotted. You 
think, then, that I will always be cowardly? You think 
I will abandon you to those who pursue you, for want 
of a coat or a scrap of paper ?” 

“ Dear, good lady, you will save him,” said Julie, clasp- 
ing her hands. 

“ Claude,” continued Clotilde, “ you shall not be recap- 
tured, you shall not return to the galleys, you shall not be 
condemned to death. You shall be free, you shall be rich, 
you shall be happy, you shall marry Julie.” 

Instead of thanking or answering her, he took a step 
toward her, seized her hand, and said to her, fixing his eyes 
upon her with an alarming expression, 

“ You are going to command something terrible, are you 
not?” 

“ It is possible,” answered she. 

“You want me to kill him?” 

“ Who ?” 

“ Who? — the Viscount de Varni.” 

“Kill M. de Varni!” resumed the viscountess, who 
threw a passing energy into the very idea which was con- 
suming her. “ Kill him at once by a single blow, almost 
without suffering, with nothing to prolong or renew our 
vengeance and his chastisement ! Do you, then, think me 
good enough to be satisfied with so little ? Do you imagine 
months, years of agony can be atoned for by the sufferings 
of one minute ? What ! a few drops of blood, the chill of 
steel, one second of agony — nothing more ! Nothing more 
for all the injury this man has done to us, to you, to me, to 
Gaston, to Julie, to all ! You think for all that it is enough 
to kill him, and you boast of having become wicked ? . . . 
Oh, Claude, I am more wicked than you, and the galleys I 


144 


CLOTILDE. 


have here in my heart have taught me more evil than 
those you have suffered from.” 

Claude and Julie shuddered. “ Well, madame, com- 
mand,” said Claude. “What must be done?” 

“For the moment, very little,” said she. “Wait a 
minute ; I must think it over.” 

Saying these words, Madame de Yarni turned away and 
appeared to reflect. But for her extreme thinness, no one 
at this instant would have guessed that she was sick. She 
who was but a moment before so weak and faint seemed 
reanimated. Evening was advancing. Twilight, so early 
at this season of the year, was gradually deepening. The 
sky, which had so lately been bathed in purple and gold, 
had become milky white, dotted here and there with the 
early stars. The tints of the setting sun, dazzling and 
brilliant at the commencement of this scene, had gradually 
paled, and sank on the horizon into a violet fog, against 
which the hills and the background were now darkly con- 
trasted. Julie and Claude had again clasped their hands, 
and the great love he read in the eyes of the young girl 
brought to her lover’s heart a happiness long since forgotten, 
a new strength which bound him to life. 

At length Madame de Yarni turned to them, and 
striking her forehead, said to Claude, 

“ I have decided on everything.” 

“What must I do?” demanded the young man. 

“ Listen ! You remember the servant you saw the 
other day on the wharf, and whose livery made you 
tremble ?” 

“ Yes, madame.” 

“Well, that tremor of joy was a presentiment. It is 
now night. For greater safety, you will remain here and 
hide yourself till I give you new orders. During this 
time Julie and I will go into the house. This servant is 


TEE WILL. 


145 


from Nice. He is named Arrioli. He has been in my 
service but eight days. I still have his papers in my 
possession, and they are in proper form. I will immediately 
send Arrioli to Paris, to M. de Varni.” 

Here Julie and Claude exchanged an astonished look. 

“ Nay, be content,” resumed the viscountess ; “ I know 
what I say, and I calculate the days and hours. Arrioli 
will go to Paris to take tidings of me to M. de Yarni. M. 
le Viscount will appreciate this attention from his beloved 
wife! . . .” continued she, with contemptuous irony. “But 
to make this journey, Arrioli will require neither his livery 
nor his passport ; it will be sufficient for him to have a letter 
from me addressed to my husband, and a well-filled purse. 
In one hour he will have gone, and in an hour Julie will 
bring you here the passport and the livery.” 

“ Oh, madame, what kindness !” 

“ You can then return with her to the house ; everybody 
will be in bed ; she will bring you into my room, and I will 
explain the rest to you.” 

The evening dampness began to make itself felt; Ma- 
dame de Varni, who till then seemed to have noticed 
neither the change in the atmosphere, the chill which made 
her tremble in spite of herself nor the increased cough 
which attacked her frequently, now said to Julie, 

“ Let us go in quickly ; this dampness is unhealthy. Oh, 
now I wish to take care of myself ; I long to live at least 
six days.” 

They went in. In an hour the domestic left for Paris, 
carrying the following letter : 

“ The physicians assure me I cannot live till the end of 
October. For the honor of your name and mine, it might 
perhaps be better that you should not remain in Paris whilst 
I die here.” 

13 


K 


146 


CL 0 TILDE. 


‘‘The end of October!” said Madame de Varni, closing 
the letter ; “ thank God, I shall not live till then.” 

As soon as the servant was gone, Julie brought to Claude 
the papers and suit of livery. 

During the time Rioux had passed in confinement, when 
every thought constantly turned toward chances of escape, 
he had acquired such skill in the art of disguise that when 
he entered Madame de Varni’s room some minutes later 
she could scarcely recognize him. 

She received him in her room ; she had dismissed her 
women and was alone, buried in the cushions of her arm- 
chair. Of all her former beauty, she had retained only 
her large blue eyes and that magnificent chestnut hair, 
which J ulie combed and twisted over her fingers whilst she 
talked to Claude. The latter, whose soul, blackened and 
hardened as it had been by sorrow, had, so to speak, been 
again calmed and subdued by the gentle influence of his 
love, now felt a sentiment of deep pity on seeing this wo- 
man, the noble companion of his childhood, holding her 
flesliless arm and transparent hand out to him. 

“ Claude,” she said to him, “ we look, and are each aston- 
ished at the other : is it not so ? I admire your fine appear- 
ance ; what have you to say of mine ?” 

“Oh, madame!” cried the young man, with tears in his 
eyes. 

“ Do not pity me ; lam satisfied now — satisfied with my- 
self as with you. We are both as we should be — you to live, 
I to die.” 

And a smile played upon her livid lips. 

“ Give me your commands, then,” said Claude ; “ what- 
ever they are, I am ready to obey you.” 

“You must leave for Avignon; you must arrange so as 
to arrive there at night ; you must make yourself known to 
no one h ut Dominique Ermel. Say to him that I expect him ; 


THE WILL. 


147 


then have this letter, which I have found strength to write, 
delivered to Antoinette Margerin. In it, I beg her to come 
to me here, with her father, immediately, if she wishes again 
to embrace me. I am sure neither she nor M. Margerin will 
refuse this request. Oh, I wish the union to be complete. , ’ 

“And it will be; I answer for it,” replied Claude; 
“ neither Dominique, M. Margerin, nor Mademoiselle An- 
toinette will be wanting at your call. Is that all you have 
to command?” 

“ Yes, for the present. Now go, without losing a minute. 
Let me see : it is now the 5th of October ; you cannot be in 
Avignon before the 7th ; on the morning of the 10th you 
should all be here — Dominique, Antoinette, M. Margerin 
and yourself.” 

“Yes, madame.” 

“ But at least not a day later ; remember, all of you, 
that my hours are numbered, and I must be still alive when 
you are reunited in this room. Remember that no one 
except Dominique must recognize you. Do not forget that 
from this moment you are no longer called Claude Rioux, 
but Arrioli ; do not forget that on the commission I give 
you depends your revenge and my own.” 

Claude bowed, and left hastily. During the four days 
following, the weakness of Madame de Varni increased 
with frightful rapidity. But from time to time she said to 
Julie, who mourned deeply, 

“ Be at ease. I shall live till the 10th of October.” 

On the morning of the 10th, Antoinette arrived with her 
father. She threw herself on Madame de Varni’s bed, 
weeping, and pressed her closely to her bosom. 

“Take care, dear child,” said the invalid, gently. “My 
breath may give you my disease, and I would have you 
remain ever beautiful.” 

M. Margerin wore the solemn and lugubrious counte- 


148 


CLOTILDE. 


nance which notaries inevitably assume under similar cir- 
cumstances. 

“Antoinette/’ resumed Madame de Varni, “I thank 
you. It would have been cruel, for me to die without again 
seeing the sweet companion of my childhood. Ah ! we 
were happy then. What pleasant times we had on the 
banks of the Rhone, breathing that free, pure air, that 
north wind, which filled our veins with the blood of youth 
and life! But where do my recollections lead me to?” she 
added, trying to sit up. “ M. Margerin, you are welcome. 
You have long had the confidence of my family, and I 
thought only of you to make my will, but I will not make 
it till this evening.” 

A few hours later, Dominique Ermel arrived. A bright 
blush overspread Antoinette’s clear cheeks. Madame de 
Varni looked at him anxiously, as if she expected to see 
some one behind him. 

“ Claude ?” she asked him, in a low tone, the moment he 
approached her bedside. 

“ He sent you word that he will be here at eight o’clock 
this evening.” 

“ Eight o’clock ?” she said, looking at the watch. “ That 
will not be too late, but we will barely have time.” 

The day passed slowly, in the silence and anxiety too 
w T ell known, to all who have spent similar hours by the bed 
of a dying friend. From time to time Clotilde, who was 
gradually growing weaker, signed to Dominique and Julie 
her fears that Claude would not arrive. 

In the course of the evening a priest, informed of the 
hopeless condition of Madame de Varni, asked if she would 
receive him. “Not yet. The notary before the priest,” 
answered she. 

At last it struck eight. Almost at the -same minute 
Claude appeared on the threshold of the room. The single 


THE* WILL. 


149 


taper which lit the apartment shed such a pale, dim light, 
and Claude was so well disguised, that neither M. Margerin 
nor even Antoinette recognized him. He appeared to be 
merely a common servant coming to receive the commands 
of his mistress. In order the better to keep up the decep- 
tion, he carried a waiter, on which he had placed a potion 
and a glass. 

He advanced, without any affectation of eagerness, 
toward Madame de Yarni, and placing the waiter on her 
stand, he said, in so low a tone that she alone could hear 
him, 

“Excuse me, madame, if I have kept you waiting. I 
required a night more — ” 

“And for what?” 

“ To kill Baptistin.” 

“ Ah ! you have done well. I forgot to tell you,” 
answered she, calmly ; and she added aloud, “ Arrioli, leave 
that waiter there, and give M. Margerin all that he requires 
to write. ... M. Margerin, be good enough to lend me 
your assistance.” 

The notary seated himself before a little table and 
unrolled a bundle of paper. Dominique Ermel was at his 
side, Julie standing near the bed, holding one of Clotilde’s 
hands in her own and consulting the pulse anxiously. 
Every five minutes she made Clotilde inhale a cordial, 
which revived her momentarily. Antoinette, a little in 
the background, prayed unceasingly. With her light hair, 
her clasped hands and her eyes bathed in tears, she seemed 
the guardian angel of the dying. Claude Rioux had 
retired to the extremity of the apartment. His earnest 
eyes were sometimes fixed on Madame de Varni, sometimes 
on a large curtain of black silk wdiich covered the wall 
opposite the bed, and under which, when a puff of air 
raised it, might be seen a gilt frame. 


150 


CLOTLLDE. 


The silence was profound. Nothing could be heard but 
the ticking of the clock and Clotilde’s labored breathing. 
Through the window, which had been opened to air the 
room a little, they felt a soft breeze, which wafted to them 
the sweet odors of that happy country. 

“ M. Margerin, write,” said Clotilde, breaking the solemn 
silence, and she dictated her will. 

The following was the will of Madame de Yarni : 

“ Being able, according to the conditions of my marriage 
contract, to dispose freely of the articles I have reserved 
for myself, to wit : 

“ My mother’s diamonds, 

“ The gardens and appurtenances of the ancient pavilion 
of Mignard, 

“I name as my sole legatee M. Dominique Ermel, 
clerk in the office of M. Margerin, notary in Avignon, 
Rue Banasterie. 

“All on the one and exclusive condition that he buys 
M. Margerin’s office, and that he marries Mademoiselle 
Antoinette Margerin, his daughter. 

“In failure of which, my property shall be sold, and 
the proceeds given to the asylums of Avignon. 

“Made at Hydres, 10th October, 1756. 

“ And signed.” 

Madame de Varni had strength enough to take the- 
paper from M. Margerin’s hands; he gave her the pen, 
pointed to the place, and she signed her name legibly. 

Antoinette and Dominique made a movement, as if to 
hasten to her and thank her ; she stopped them by a sign, 
and added, panting for breath, but in a voice still impe- 
rious, 

“All is not done: I have still something to say. M. 


THE WILL. 


151 


Margerin, and you, my good Antoinette, leave the room 
for a minute. Dominique, and you, Julie, and you too, 
Arrioli, remain.” 

M. Margerin went out with his daughter ; as soon as the 
door was closed on them, Madame de Yarni resumed hur- 
riedly, 

“ Dominique, Claude, Julie, come quickly ! Dominique 
Ermel, you are now my only notary; take a sheet of 
blank paper and write my real will, the one which will 
be valid for you three. And she dictated : 

“M. Dominique Ermel shall sell my diamonds, which 
are worth one hundred thousand crowns, and shall pay 
one-half of the proceeds to Claude Rioux. 

“ The said Claude Rioux, as soon as I shall have closed 
my eyes, shall go to Italy, by the name of Arrioli ; he shall 
take Julie Thibaut with him, and marry her. 

“The said Dominique Ermel shall purchase the office 
of M. Margerin ; he shall marry Antoinette Margerin ; he 
shall live in Avignon.” 

Madame de Varni was silent for a moment; she seemed 
collecting the little breath of life still left her. 

“Now, Julie,” she said, “draw aside the curtain which 
covers that picture, and light another taper.” 

The young girl obeyed, lit a taper, advanced toward the 
black silk curtain, which hung opposite the bed, and drew 
it aside with a trembling hand; the portrait of Madame 
de Yarni, such as she was at the time of her marriage, 
was then exposed to view. The artist seemed to have 
foreseen Clotilde’s trouble, he had thrown so much expres- 
sion into her face, and been so careful to depict the first 
symptoms of languor and suffering, which were even then 
visible on that lovely face. But the almost imperceptible 


152 


CLOTILDE. 


cloud was so softened by the painter’s touch that he had 
made of it an added beauty, and this portrait called up a 
sad comparison. 

“ Claude, Dominique, Julie,” resumed Madame de Varni, 
“ look at this portrait. That face was mine two years ago ; 
now look at me! Do you find me much changed r*’ 

They were silent, and she continued, 

“Dominique, I bequeath you also that portrait; have 
engraved on the frame the place and date of my death — 
Hyeres, 10th October, 1756.” 

The young man . bowed his head in token of sorrowful 
obedience. 

“ That is not all,” she continued. “Claude and Domi- 
nique, here is the final clause of my will. You will have 
children, will you not? Yes, you will have children, and 
M. de Varni, too, will have them, for he will be free, and I 
feel, — I am sure, he will marry again. The future of his 
family, the pride of his name, of which he is the only in- 
heritor, requires that he should remarry and have a son. 
Touch not a hair of his head till he is a husband and 
father. For the injury he has done me one victim would 
be too little, and if my vengeance reached him alone, I 
should not think myself avenged. No, let him live, and 
live again in a son, and let that son have children, so" that 
each may have his turn, and that one may always remain 
in this world, his forehead branded for punishment. You, 
Claude, must return to France as soon as you can do so 
without danger; you, Dominique, must wait till Claude 
shall have returned ; then consult together ; then strike ; 
seek to discover by what means your blow may be most 
frightful, the wound deepest, the torment most enduring. 
Be inflexible as judges, impassive as instruments, pitiless 
as executioners. But while you are merciless to the man, 
never extinguish the family. Always stop at the child 


THE WILL. 


153 


destined to grow and perpetuate his name, that my work 
may be continued ! Respect and watch over him as over a 
treasure — a treasure of hatred which you will use but never 
extinguish. That my object may be completely attained, 
that my will may be well executed, it is not enough that 
you remember me and all I have suffered : you must in- 
spire your children with the feelings with which I inspire 
you ; you must educate them for this mission of vengeance 
with which I invest' you. They must inherit from you, as 
you from me; after you are gone they must act in your 
name, as you act in the name of that Clotilde whose last 
words you now hear.” 

Madame de Varni fell back exhausted. Great drops of 
perspiration bathed her face, but there was still life in her 
eyes, whose intensity of expression seemed to augment with 
every word she uttered. 

“ One word more,” she added : “ I wish my vengeance to 
reach three generations, and for that I assign ninety years’ 
duration. Dating from October 10, 1756, it will not expire 
till October 10, 1846. Claude, Dominique, Julie, have you 
understood me?” 

“Yes,” they murmured, shuddering and overcome. 

“ And do you swear to me to fulfil every point and to 
bequeath to your sons the task I leave you ?” 

“ We swear it.” 

. “Your hands!” 

They gave their hands, and she pressed them by turns 
with her cold, clammy fingers. 

“Now all is done,” she said; “let M. Margerin and 
Antoinette come in; you, Claude, resume your name of 
Arrioli, and retire as before to the end of the room ; then 
bring in the priest.” 

Antoinette and her father again entered. 

Madame de Varni signed to the young girl to come to 


154 


CLOTILDE. 


her bedside. “ Dear, sweet friend,” she said to her, “ there 
is in your angelic soul not one feeling which is not all 
love, goodness, resignation and tenderness ; the breath of 
the passions which agitate us passes without touching you, 
without troubling the purity of your brow, the serenity of 
your heart. Ever retain, Antoinette, that beautiful and 
holy ignorance ; make Dominique happy ; be happy your- 
self ; and you, who can pray, pray for those who cannot !” 

Antoinette fell on her knees sobbing. Julie remained by 
Clotilde’s pillow. 

At this moment the priest entered ; Madame de Yarni 
appeared so overcome that he asked her no questions. He 
addressed to her some words of consolation, then began to 
repeat the prayers for the dying. 

The night advanced ; M. Margerin, Dominique and An- 
toinette repeated the sacred words after the priest ; Claude, 
on his knees behind them, kept silent. Julie was still 
standing, and her eyes never left the invalid’s face for an 
instant : the first shades of death were falling over it. 

Suddenly, with a last, unexpected effort, Madame de 
Yarni half raised herself, and drawing Julie to her with 
incredible energy, she murmured in her ear, 

“ Adieu, Julie ! We will be avenged !” 

“ My daughter,” said the priest, bending over Clotilde, 
“do you forgive those who have offended you?” 

She made no answer : she was dead. 


PAET SECOND. 


“X 

THIRTY YEARS LATER. 

T MUST now ask you, Monsieur le Viscount, to pass over 
with me a space of thirty years. On the 20th of Octo- 
ber, 1786, there was a ball in the Rue Banasterie, at the 
house of our old friends, Dominique and Antoinette Ermel. 
Their only son, Agricol Ermel, had that day been married 
to the pretty Adeline Morin, the daughter of one of their 
dearest friends. The sincere, impassioned happiness which 
shone on the faces of the young married people was re- 
flected on Antoinette’s countenance, still beautiful in spite 
of the fifty years which had passed over it. Although he 
was almost the same age as herself, Dominique seemed to 
be ten years older. His elegant figure was bent, his bright, 
intelligent eye seemed dulled by some sad thought, some 
mournful preoccupation, the secret of which would have 
been asked of the slight but marked wrinkles which netted 
his temples and brow. In casting our eyes around the 
room, where, thanks to his spotless reputation and brilliant 
practice, M. Ermel had been able to gather together guests 
of distinction, and where several illustrious personages 
mingled with the untitled celebrities, it was impossible not 
to be struck by the aspect of a man of about sixty years 
of age, dressed entirely in black, whose noble bearing and 
appearance, with the severe and almost harsh beauty of his 
head, and something sad and forbidding in his whole per- 

155 


156 


CLOTILDE. 


son, fixed your attention in the midst of this gay and care- 
less crowd. The host and hostess showed him a deference, 
respectful, but nevertheless marked by a sort of fear and 
an insurmountable\aversion. A stranger, heart and mind, 
to the gaiety, it was easily understood that his being present 
was merely an act of courtesy. He, too, in spite of his 
efforts to smile and show some marks of good-will to those 
around him, betrayed his haughty nature by the arrogant 
expression with which he knit his gray brows and furrowed 
his broad, clouded forehead. At his side, forming a charm- 
ing contrast with him, was a handsome young man dressed 
in the fashion of the time. He was complimenting Agricol 
Ermel with that youthful frankness which goes to the heart, 
because it comes from the heart and lessens social distances 
more than all the laws in the world. 

This sexagenarian with such a gloomy and morose ap- 
pearance was the Viscount de Varni, the man who played 
such a terrible part in the first portion of these memoirs ; 
that amiable and elegant young man was his son, Elzear 
de Varni, married scarce a year before. We shall here- 
after learn what events had led the husband of the unfor- 
tunate Clotilde and the friend of the unhappy Gaston de 
Tervaz to meet in the same parlor on terms of amicable 
politeness. For the present, it suffices to say that Elzear 
de Varni was the son of the viscount’s second wife, who 
had died several years previous under afflicting circum- 
stances, which will not be forgotten in this narrative. 

At the moment these memoirs are reopened, Elzear de 
Varni approached the bride with exquisite politeness, and 
said, bowing before her, 

“ Be kind enough to excuse me, madame, if I am forced 
to deny myself the happiness which I had hoped for — of 
daincing the first minuet with you. It was with great 
difficulty that I tore myself for an hour from the post my 


THIRTY YEARS LATER. 


157 


duty as a husband assigned me ; you will not blame me 
if I confess that I feel anxious to see what is passing at 
home.” 

“ Oh, monsieur,” Agricol hastened to reply, whilst Ade- 
line, blushing and confused, murmured some unmeaning 
monosyllables, “in spite of the gratitude and pleasure 
we take in your valued presence here, I reproach my- 
self for every minute that you lose with us. At this 
moment, while I am speaking, Madame de Varni, per- 
haps—” 

“ No, not quite yet,” replied Elzear, smiling ; “ I ordered 
them to come for me immediately, if it took place; but 
it is no less true that ever since this morning my dear 
Adrienne has felt the premonitory symptoms. You will 
understand all this a year hence!” added Elzear, turn- 
ing to Adeline, redoubling her confusion and blushes. 

“Ah, monsieur, you jest, but I am not the man to dis- 
appoint you,” answered Agricol, gayly. “Your example 
is too good not to be followed.” 

“So, then, you will bear me no ill-will if I leave you?” 
said Elzear, pressing Agricol’ s hand cordially. 

“We thank you twice: first, for having been willing to 
come ; second, for associating us with this moment, so full 
of sweet and joyous emotions for yourself. Yes, sir, re- 
turn 'to Madame de Yarni; our prayers will follow you 
there, and this night may a fine boy, fresh and rosy, be 
sent to rejoice your kind heart and perpetuate your noble 
race !” 

As he pronounced these last words with the enthusiasm 
natural to his age, a sudden pallor overspread the face of 
Dominique, who stood behind him. He shuddered as if 
those simple words had brought some terrible reality be- 
fore him, and this sentiment of anxiety and fear became 
still more marked when the old viscount, striking him 
14 


158 


CLOTILDE. 


gently on the shoulder, said to him with a sadness which 
he did not seek to conceal : 

“ And I too, M. Ermel, would ask your permission to 
retire. I too feel anxious to return to my daughter-in- 
law, and to learn if by giving me a grandson she will 
shed one last ray of happiness in a heart so cruelly tried ; 
besides, you know I am in every w r ay interdicted the gaie- 
ties of the w r orld — my recollections, my griefs, this mourning 
which I shall wear all my life.” 

“ Believe me, M. le Viscount,” answered the notary, re- 
spectfully, “ I feel as I should, the honor you have done us 
in thus deviating from your sedentary habits to come to my 
son’s marriage.” 

The Viscount de Varni, leaning on his son’s arm, threw 
a rapid glance around the room, bowed politely but coldly 
to his acquaintances, then taking final leave of his hosts, 
he left with slow steps, accompanied by Dominique and 
Agricol, who insisted upon escorting him to the foot of the 
stairs. An instant after, one of the clerks in the office 
approached Dominique, and whispered in his ear that a 
stranger, accompanied by a child of thirteen or fourteen 
years old, had just gone into his private room and wished 
to speak wfith him. 

Although there was nothing extraordinary in this an- 
nouncement, Dominique felt a shudder pass over him of 
which he could not divest himself. He rose without say- 
ing a word and turned toward his office, situated at the 
other extremity of the first story. The man whom he 
found standing there waiting for him was tall, with a 
manly, energetic, strongly-marked face, to which the con- 
trast of his almost white hair with his sunburnt com- 
plexion gave a peculiar character. The cut and style of 
his clothing were foreign. He wore long black riding 
boots over black velvet pantaloons; a travelling doublet 


THIRTY YEARS LATER. 


159 


of the same material ; a brown cloak and a felt hat with 
a broad rim completed his simple costume. The child, 
whom he held by the hand, and who nestled close to him, 
looking right and left with an air of astonishment and 
frightened curiosity, was very handsome, but there was 
something savage and unpleasant in his beauty. 

Dominique Ermel scarcely had time to recover from his 
confusion when the stranger, fixing upon him eyes full of 
fire, but still softened by an inexpressible melancholy, said 
to him, in very good French, 

“ Am I, then, so changed by grief and by age that my 
oldest friend does not recognize me ?” 

An idea, a recollection, a chill, passed through Domi- 
nique ErmePs mind like the point of a sword. “ Claude 
Rioux !” exclaimed he, shuddering. 

“No, but Claude d’Arrioules,” replied the stranger. 
“ Claude Rioux no longer exists. Thirty years have passed 
since his escape from Toulon. The period of exile is over, 
and besides, no human eye but yours could recognize my 
features now. Is it not so, Dominique ?” 

“ It is true,” said the notary. Then he added, after 
some moments of hesitation, “ This pretty child is doubtless 
yours and the unfortunate Julie’s ?” 

“Yes,” answered Claude. “Jerome,” continued he, 
addressing the boy, “ kiss the gentleman’s hand.” 

Jerome advanced, his large brown eyes fixed upon 
Dominique with their expression of almost ferocious as- 
tonishment. He was about to take his hand, to obey his 
father, but M. Ermel did not give him time, for bending 
toward him, he embraced him with mournful tenderness. 

“ How much he looks like his mother !” he stammered, 
after another pause. 

“ And the resemblance does not stop in the face,” replied 
Claude. “You shall see. Jerome,” he said to his son, 


160 


CLOTILDE. 


“ what do you feel for the memory of Gaston and Clo- 
tilde?” 

A sort of infantine adoration was pictured in Jerome’s 
face. 

“Well, my son, and for the Viscount de Varni?” 

Dominique shuddered on reading on that beautiful young 
face a sudden expression of instinctive and ferocious 
hatred. 

“You see,” said Claude ‘to the notary, “ I do not weary 
of obeying the voice which cries to us from the depths of 
the grave. I prepare my son, from his earliest years, to 
continue my task some day. I am faithful, to the oath of 
the 10th of October, 1756. And you, Dominique?” 

M. Ermel lowered his eyes, and made no answer. Claude 
resumed, 

“ I have come to demand an account of what you have 
done up to this time. I have come to consult with you on 
what we must henceforth do. Can you grant me a few 
hours’ conversation ?” 

“ But,” answered Dominique, timidly, “ my son has to- 
day been married, and the noise you now hear is that of 
the family party by which we are celebrating the mar- 
riage.” 

“It is true. Music! a violin !” interrupted Claude, with 
a sombre irony. "“In fact, you are happy. You have 
seen your son grow peacefully under the watchful eye of 
his mother. Nothing has interrupted the harmony of your 
union with your dear Antoinette, whose good angel has 
concealed from her the terrible mysteries which bin^us to 
the memories of Clotilde and Gaston. I understand that 
this peaceful felicity has softened your heart, and you are 
beginning to forget.” 

“ Well,” answered the notary, “ I will send word to the 
parlor that important and unexpected business will detain 


THIRTY YEARS LATER . 


161 


me here a part of the night. Claude, I am at your 
service.” 

D’Arrioules took off his cloak, and wrapping it around 
Jerome, laid him on* two chairs, thinking that sleep would 
soon overtake him. In the mean time M. Eraiel threw 
on the hearth several armsful of wood, in order to heat 
the room, already cold with the dampness of October. 
Then the two friends seated themselves in the corner of the 
chimney, and both remained a moment silent, bowed under # 
the weight of their recollections. 

14* L 


REMINISCENCES. 


LL that passed between Dominique and Claude in that 



gloomy interview which the notary found forced upon 
him on leaving the peaceful joys of his son’s wedding, we 
will find in a correspondence which makes an essential part 
of these memoirs. 


Dominique to Claude. 


“May 3 , 1757 . 


“ I will have deposited, my dear Claude, at the bankers’, 
Ciliano and Buonaresta, in Florence, the sum of twenty 
thousand francs, payable to your order, accruing from the 
possessions of our dear, unfortunate viscountess. The 
balance will soon follow, for you must understand with 
what scrupulous exactitude I have endeavored to acquit 
myself of that sacred debt. As we agreed on parting, 
these bankers, with whom M. Margerin’s office had long 
corresponded and been connected, will serve as a medium 
of communication till I know positively where you fix 
your adventurous destiny. You will only be known to them 
by the name of C. d’Arrioules, a French gentleman, forced 
to seek an asylum in Italy in consequence of an elopement 
or a duel. Your Julie is beautiful enough to authorize the 
first of these suppositions, and your manner is sufficiently 
proud to justify the second. 

“I add to my package the hasty recital of the events 
which have transpired since your departure. Of whom 
shall I speak first if not of Antoinette? I cannot tell you 
what was her despair when, already grieved by the death 


REMINISCENCES. 


163 


of Madame de Yarni, it was necessary for me to tell her 
that Julie had disappeared, and to add that everything 
conspired in evidence of her death and yours. In fact, my 
dear Claude, your orders were faithfully executed; you 
thought that, to make more sure of fulfilling sooner or later 
the mission of vengeance left us by Madame de Varni, it 
was better to represent you and Julie as dead. I acted 
accordingly. The day following your departure, the torn 
galley blouse you had worn, the black ribbon Julie had 
always tied round her cap and the cross she wore on her 
breast were found on the seashore near Porquerolles ; the 
cross was wrapped in a piece of paper, on which was written 
the words, ‘ For Antoinette/ As nothing is easier, especially 
with the aid of Southern imaginations, than to give authen- 
ticity to tragic report, I readily succeeded in making it 
believed — and true enough it was, too — that you had escaped 
to see Julie once more, that certain of being recaptured you 
had preferred death, and that Julie, overcome by the 
mournful scenes in which she had taken part, and frantic 
with grief and love, not wishing to survive you, had thrown 
herself into the sea after you, leaving a keepsake for her 
friend. Ah, I had need of all my courage to maintain and 
spread the fable. Antoinette, usually so calm and so 
gentle, threw herself at my feet, beseeching me to leave her 
some little hope ; ten times I was on the point of revealing 
all to her, but I remembered the orders you enforced upon 
me with such energy. It seemed to me that since the death 
of Madame de Varni you had become the arbiter of our 
fortunes — you, who had suffered most. 

“ In the mean while, M. de Yarni arrived ; he learned all 
at the same time — the death of his wife, the disappearance 
and probable death of Julie and yourself. I do not know 
whether this wicked man was softened by the number of 
victims struck, killed, lost, through him, but the fact is 


164 


CLOTILDE. 


that I saw him grow pale and shudder, and since that mo- 
ment his conduct has been a subject of surprise to all who 
know his immense pride, his iron will, his implacable pas- 
sions. His conduct toward me has been astonishing. I 
confess I feared the effect which the will of Madame de 
Yarni, naming me her sole heir, would produce on that sus- 
picious and haughty mind. Well, not one muscle of his 
face betrayed either displeasure or annoyance. He affected 
to believe, and I neglected no means of strengthening this 
opinion, that his wife, when dying, seeing her two com- 
panions, the two friends of her childhood, at her bedside, 
and being able to do nothing for Julie on account of your 
condemnation, turned all her benevolent thoughts to An- 
toinette, and asked herself by what means she could remove 
the only obstacle that separated me from her, and then dic- 
tated that will, so that before closing her eyes for ever she 
might rest them on one consoling sight. Such, too, was 
the opinion of Antoinette and her father, and such the 
explanation M. de Yarni adopted. 

“ Encouraged by his eagerness to. ratify his wife’s will, 
M. Margerin then presented me to him as his future son- 
in-law and successor, asking him not to withdraw his con- 
fidence from the house which was proud to count him 
among the number of its patrons. The viscount then fixed 
on me Tiis stern, haughty eyes ; whether my countenance 
seemed to him to promise the desirable honesty, or whether 
he was haunted by a desire of reparation to his victim, he 
made a sign of assent, and even said to me, with a pretty 
good grace, that he would always remain true to a house 
whose honorable dealings would be continued in my person. 
Claude, is there not something providential (I was about 
to say fatal) in that meeting, which scarcely five or six 
days after the catastrophe and compact of the 10th of Octo- 
ber thus established a first tie between the man destined 


REMINISCENCES. 


165 


to feel our vengeance and one of those whom Madame de 
Varni had chosen for instruments of her will? Whatever 
may have been the cause, after having distributed money 
with open hands at Avignon and Hy&res, after having 
endowed several churches on condition that they should 
pray day and night for the departed — in a word, after 
having done all that the most afflicted and devoted hus- 
band could have done in his place — the viscount left for 
Paris, where he will probably seek distraction in the cares 
of ambition or the whirl of dissipation. 

“Alas! my dear Claude, here a sad duty falls to my 
pen. Father Thibaut did not survive the disappearance 
of his daughter. You doubtless know that since the hor- 
rible episode of the inundation his mental faculties have 
been enfeebled ; he had never understood much about 
those events, except that Julie was in despair, that you 
were at the galleys, and that there was, perhaps, behind 
all this, a mystery still more fearful. Judge what a blow 
it was to his already shattered brain when, on my return 
from Hy&res, I was forced to announce to him that Ma- 
dame de Yarni was dead, and we had every unhappy 
indication of Julie’s death and of yours. There again I 
fulfilled your commands : I became cruel to obey you. 

“ He did not weep, but he was seized with an internal 
convulsion, after' which it was impossible for him to walk 
or talk. He lingered in this state throughout the winter. 
I cannot give you an idea of the sadness which oppressed 
my heart when I entered into the low parlor of that inn 
which recalled to my mind so many recollections, and there 
saw the dying, speechless old man, whose heavy eyes 
seemed incessantly seeking an absent face. For the rest, 
he was not left alone an instant. Antoinette wished to 
take Julie’s place; she nursed him with incomparable 
devotion. Finally, three weeks since, one mild spring 


166 


CLOTILDE. 


evening, the poor old man died. We were with him, 
Antoinette kneeling at his feet and two or three neigh- 
bors standing in the room. I thought I saw his lips 
move. I bent over him, and in that scarcely perceptible 
movement I fancied I could distinguish Julie’s name; 
then a happy inspiration came to me. Seeing that Thi- 
baut had but a few minutes to live, that he could not 
speak, that our secret could not be betrayed, I said to 
him in a low tone, ‘Julie is not dead; she is happy; she 
begs you to bless her.’ Doubtless, when approaching the 
mysteries of death, a terrestrial surprise is no longer pos- 
sible, for Thibaut did not appear to doubt my words ; he 
turned his eyes on me with an expression of unutterable, 
joy and thankfulness, bowing his head in token that he 
believed me. Then reaching his hands into vacancy, as 
if to give a blessing, he let them fall on Antoinette, and 
with a smile on his lips he drew his last breath. 

“ Now, my friend, not to finish my letter in so sad a 
manner, I will tell you that at last, after the customary 
preliminaries and transactions, M. Margerin has made his 
office over to me, and I have been for eight days the hus- 
band of Antoinette. Yes, Antoinette is mine. I do not 
know how I have had courage to speak to you of any- 
thing but my happiness, and now it appears to me I have 
no longer the courage to speak of it. The idea alone of 
this happiness makes my heart palpitate and my hand 
tremble. My infatuated lips have dried other tears than 
tears of sorrow in those sweet eyes. I have seen that 
heavenly brow grow pale, crimson, and become pale again. 
Oh, remain silent and veiled, ye raptures of a boundless 
love — chaste and ardent ecstacies ! or rather, Claude, do I 
need to tell you what one experiences in falling thus, after 
waiting long, weary days of grief, at the feet of his be- 
loved? You, too, while I write to you, perhaps press 


REMINISCENCES. 


167 


your adorable Julie in your arms ; you, too, learn bow so 
many hours of suffering and anguish can be forgotten and 
annihilated. What do I say? Your felicity should be 
even greater than mine. Have you not been a thousand 
times more unhappy? To pass from the tortures of the 
galleys into Julie’s arms, is it not a dream? And this 
unheard-of, impossible dream you have realized. Claude, 
it remains for me to make you a confession. This inex- 
pressible delight I, like you, owe to Madame de Yarni. 
Our unfortunate friend had anticipated for herself a fate 
like our own. Finding it had vanished, leaving her but a 
reality so frightful, she turned her thoughts toward those 
who had suffered for and with her, and she bequeathed to 
us that happiness of which she felt herself disinherited. I 
repeat all this to myself incessantly. My fortune, my joy, 
Antoinette’s smile, the recollections of the past, the emo- 
tions of the present, — all speak to me of Madame de Varni. 
Her image is constantly present to my mind, and the more 
she has done for me, the more eager should I be to fulfil her 
last commands. . . . Well, there are moments when this 
image importunes me, when the thought of the vengeance 
of which she has made us the executors crosses my happi- 
ness like a cloud, and Antoinette asks me, with anxious 
surprise, whence this sudden and inexplicable sadness 
which so clouds my brow. I feel that my heart was not 
formed to hate. I would have died a thousand times for 
Madame de Yarni, I would have given my life to secure 
her happiness, but I can never attain the height of the role 
her dying hand traced for me. To love, to possess Antoi- 
nette, to be intoxicated by the balmy breath, the sweet 
caresses of that divine creature, whom the spirit of^evil can 
never touch with his wing, is to become at once incapable 
of all save tenderness, kindness, gentleness and forgiveness. 
Yes, the excess of happiness robs me of the courage of 


168 


CLOTILDE. 


hatred ; and because I feel the immensity of her benefits, I 
forget what my benefactress has exacted of me. Claude, 
it seems to me, as I write these lines, that I shall see you 
appear before me, ready to require of me a strict account. 
Why can I not at least press your hand ? I would submit 
to your reproaches, and I would promise you obedience, as 
I have promised it to the viscountess. You must speak to 
me of her, you must tell me of Julie. Where are you ? Is 
Julie your wife? Have you chosen a nest for your love in 
some fresh, green solitude ? Write to me soon. Tell me where 
my letters must henceforth go in search of you. Since fate 
separates us at a time when it would have been so sweet to 
have been together, let us at least gratify our friendship by 
those distant conversations which are to thought what the 
portrait is to the eye, and which will maintain between us 
a mysterious bond in spite of absence. Adieu! Say to 
Julie that I love you for two, since Antoinette, alas! can 
show her love only in mourning for you.” 

Julie to Dominique. 

“ Baveno, Sept. 10, 1757. 

“ It is I, my dear Dominique, who will reply to your 
letter ; my poor Claude is not yet sufficiently sure of his 
handwriting, for he has only me for his teacher, and I 
merely know T what I have learned from our dear and un- 
happy lady. 

“We were no longer at Florence when your messenger 
arrived there ; he followed us here. You cannot imagine 
a more charming site than this town of Baveno, situated 
on the banks of Lake Maggiore, under a sky so pure and 
so beautiful that, recalling to my mind the sky of our 
beloved Provence, it prevents my regretting it too deeply. 

“ Thanks to the passport Claude had retained, we were 
enabled to reach Florence without difficulty. We re- 


REMINISCENCES. 


169 


mained some time in a suburb of the city, to give Claude 
time to become a little civilized, to transform hiinself into 
a gentleman, which required some weeks’ study. Then, 
provided with the letter you had given us for the firm 
Ciliano & Buonaresta, we presented ourselves there. Claude 
played the part agreed upon with you ; he passed for a 
quarrelsome Frenchman obliged to expatriate himself on 
account of a duel with a Proven9al noble. This story 
was very kindly received by the honest bankers, and 
they took it upon them with a good grace to ask a new 
passport for us according to law, and to give us the means 
to move more freely in our new country. Here we are, 
then, unbaptized, my dear Dominique, and bearing the 
name of D’Arrioules, which we will henceforth retain. I 
say we, for from the time of our presentation at the bankers 
of Florence I felt that my position toward Claude was no 
longer possible, at least till I became his wife. 

“We rented, at five minutes’ walk from Baveno, on the 
side of the hill called La Lugana, a pretty house half 
frame, half stone, which is built partly in the style both of 
the Swiss chalets and of our dear cottages on the banks 
of the Khone. I have already converted the ground-floor 
into a sort of Noah’s ark. Tame hens come upon the 
very hearthstone to plunder under the shadows of the 
chimney. Beautiful pigeons with azure necks have their 
nests under the eaves above the windows, whence they 
take their flight into the country, and where they return 
to stretch their pretty lazy heads to my caressing hands. 
Claude has built a little stable against the outer wall of 
the kitchen, where we keep three goats. A few steps 
from the door we have a spring of water, and Claude has 
artistically embedded the trunk of a maple for it to flow 
through, and after having watered our little garden, it 
empties into a natural basin, the delight of a dozen ducks 
15 


170 


CLOTILDE. 


almost as white as swans. As the neighboring mountains 
abound in game, and M. Claude has not forgotten his 
ancient peccadilloes as a poacher, he has procured two 
beautiful dogs, who already love me dearly, and who 
every evening come and lie at our feet, while, seated on 
the bench at our door, we breathe the soft air of the sum- 
mer nights. Last of all, my husband has purchased a boat, 
and in it we make long trips on Lake Maggiore. Some- 
times I take the oar ; Claude casts his net, and then remi- 
niscences of our childhood crowd upon me. I imagine 
Antoinette’s smiling face and Clotilde’s mournful image 
in the distance. At other times, while I row, Claude re- 
mains motionless by my side, singing one of the beautiful 
carols of our country ; suddenly breaking off he will say 
to me, ‘ Oh how I love you !’ and I let the oar fall, and 
drawing Claude to my heart, my only reply is a kiss on 
his sunburnt forehead. 

“You see, my dear Dominique, I linger w T ith pleasure 
on these pictures of happiness. My first trial, I would say 
my first remorse, was caused by your letter. Yes, my 
friend, in the intoxication of my new life I had forgotten 
all else, and meantime my poor father has passed away 
far from me, nursed by other hands than mine. I have 
read and re-read the page of your letter in which you 
announce to me these cruel tidings. I have wept, I have 
blessed your sweet, angelic Antoinette, the guardian angel 
of the forsaken old man. Ah, when I think of him, of 
the cruel story we invented to make him believe he no 
longer had a daughter, of that last sorrow which upset his 
weakened mind and led him slowly to the grave, I think 
myself guilty. I feel indeed ashamed, but I was forced 
to obey the two supreme arbiters of my fate, Madame de 
Varni’s and Claude’s wishes. Do you understand, Domi- 
nique? — you, whose heart is already so softened by hap- 


REMINISCENCES. 


171 


piness that you almost forget by whom and on what 
conditions that happiness was conferred upon you? You 
tell us that when with Antoinette your heart no longer 
feels itself capable of hatred, that your task affrights you, 
and the pure, sweet caresses which enrapture you drive' 
from your mind the thought of revenge inherited from the 
dying Clotilde. If you knew the anger which suddenly 
brightened Claude’s eyes when I read to him that passage 
in your letter! Oh, Dominique, how terrible that anger 
was ! It seemed as if every word he uttered was a curse 
against M. de Yarni’s posterity. Forgive your old friend 
his unrelenting severity. He, too, was one of the victims 
of the horrible night of the 25th November, and the 
pavilion of Mignard, which he entered to save M. de Ter- 
vaz — alas! he left it for the galleys! I am sure the 
will of our unfortunate viscountess has become to Claude 
the consecration of a deep and personal hatred, slowly 
settled in his heart during his ten months at the galleys — 
those months of ignominy and suffering. He thinks that 
in striking and punishing he will merely obey his oath; 
he does not realize that in obeying Madame de Varni’s 
will he will seek his own revenge as well.” 

Dominique to Claude. 

“ Avignon, Jan. 13, 1761. 

“My dear Claude: 

“ I must begin by announcing to you an event which over- 
whelms me with joy : Antoinette has just presented me 
with a son, a fine, large boy, whom we- this morning bap- 
tized, and have named Agricol. I do not wish to write too 
much of my happiness to you, who have known the sorrow 
of losing your first child,* which recent wound I am fearful 

* Doubtless, between the letters which the notary gives there were 
others which he suppresses as useless to the tenor of the narrative. 


172 


CLOTILDE. 


of reopening. I have another piece of news to give you : 
M. de Varni, after having spent two years in Paris, where 
he filled some diplomatic office, was naturalized ; he was in 
high favor in Versailles, and the king gave him the red 
ribbon, promising something still better. Some time after, 
the viscount returned to the south, but instead of coming 
to Avignon, which doubtless recalls to his mind too many 
painful recollections, he has chosen for his residence his 
castle of Maleraygues, an old manor situated in the midst 
of the woods, in that part of Cevennes near the town of 
Alais. This is not all : M. de Varni has often met, either 
at Alais or in the environs, a young person whose parents 
are his neighbors in the country — Mademoiselle Edwige 
du Chesnay. She pleased him, and it seems that, in 
spite of his gloomy manners and sinister face, he has 
found the way to the heart of Mademoiselle Edwige. In 
short, I this morning received a letter from M. du Ches- 
nay, a good, worthy old gentleman, who honored my father- 
in-law, M. Margerin, with his friendship, and has been for 
many years a patron of my office ; he writes to tell me of 
the proposal which is offered for his daughter’s considera- 
tion, informs me of their mutual affection, and asks me 
what I know of M. de Varni’s antecedents, his character, 
his manners, whether he made his first wife happy, of what 
disease she died, etc. Before replying to M. du Chesnay, I 
felt it necessary to consult you, and to address to you one 
prayer. I earnestly desire that this family, in which the 
most amiable examples of goodness and virtue have been 
transmitted from generation to generation, and that this 
young person, who is said to be as charming and lovely 
as an angel, should be preserved from an alliance which 
can promise them nothing but misery and misfortune. 
In his brilliant and varied life M. de Varni will doubtless 
meet many other women, among whom he will have but to 


REMINISCENCES. 


173 


choose the new companion of his fortunes. Let us spare, 
I beseech you, this little corner of the earth, this lovely 
family, this youthful heart, where heretofore naught but 
peace, contentment and purity of soul have reigned. They 
are innocent of the evil M. de Varni has done, are they 
not? Let not a fatal union bind Edwige to a life dishonored 
in the past, condemned in the future ! I ask it, my dear 
Claude, in the name of our old friendship. I can, without 
overstepping the prudent reserve imposed upon me by 
my profession, prevent this marriage by the tone I could 
readily give to my answer to M. du Chesnay, for he has 
unlimited confidence in me. Claude, do not refuse me this 
last favor ! Hereafter I shall be entirely at your service, 
entirely devoted to the terrible work to which we have been 
bound by an oath. A thousand kind remembrances to 
Julie. Adieu.” 


Claude to Dominique. 

“Baveno, Feb. 8, 1761. 

“ In the name of the Viscountess Clotilde de Varni, I 
forbid you to write anything which can prevent the mar- 
riage of the Viscount de Varni with Mademoiselle Edwige 
du Chesnay.” 


Dominique to Claude. 

“ Avignon, March 25, 1761. 

“You have been obeyed. M. de Varni was yesterday 
married to Mademoiselle Edwige du Chesnay.” 

Dominique to Claude. 

“ Avignon, Feb. 23, 1763. 

“ My dear Claude : 

“ Faithful to the task you imposed upon me, I find myself 
called upon to announce to you an event which should have 


174 


CLOTILDE. 


its place in our correspondence. The Viscountess Edwige 
de Varni has given birth to a son. M. de Varni wrote to 
me from his castle of Maleraygues, where he has been 
residing since his marriage, to inform me of this fact. As 
soon as the viscountess is recovered he intends to return to 
Avignon to pass some time, in order to present his wife and 
heir-presumptive to his friends and relations. He charged 
me to have the requisite repairs and improvements made in 
his house. His letter, which is replete with joy and the 
frankest cordiality, shows me, once more, the truth of the 
observation with which my few years of experience have 
already furnished me. It is that men have a great propen- 
sity to make their misfortunes responsible for their faults, 
and when they cease to have trouble they almost forget they 
have done wrong. 

“Whatever passes, my friend, you are kept informed 
of it. This second generation, foreseen and announced 
by the unfortunate Clotilde, has now come into existence 
in the person of Agricol, my son, and Elzear, the young 
child who has just been born at Maleraygues to so many 
joys and sorrows. You alone are childless. Is it a provi- 
dence of God, whose goodness reproves and will break 
our compact of vengeance ? Ah ! could I but believe it ! — 
Adieu.” 

Dominique to Claude. 

“ Avignon, June 4, 1767. 

“Once again I have obeyed you. Monsieur de Varni 
and his young wife were happy, tranquil ; they loved, and 
the smile of his child seemed to the viscount like the 
pardon of God announced by the mouth of an angel. Now 
they are estranged, unhappy, suspicious of each other, 
struggling against an invisible arrow which wounds and 
tortures them. 


REMINISCENCES. 


175 


“ Nearly three years have passed since the viscount and 
viscountess came, as I then informed you, to live at Avig- 
non. In spite of the great difference in our rank, M. de 
Varni insisted upon introducing his wife to mine, saying, 
with the affability of a happy man and a great nobleman 
bent on showing his good nature, that before such beauty 
and virtue as Antoinette’s all social distinctions were 
lowered. My wife was much distressed at being obliged to 
receive the amiable Edwige. In her eyes, the fact of her 
bearing the name of the Viscountess de Varni and of filling 
a place sacred to the memory of our beloved Clotilde were 
serious faults. But such is the influence of real grace and 
goodness that this impression quickly disappeared, and I 
was soon forced by my own observation to acknowledge 
that there were between these two women a thousand affini- 
ties, a thousand points of sympathy. Madame Edwige, as 
we call her, is not a beauty in the full sense of the word, 
but one forgets, in looking at her, that there might be more 
regular features. The reigning expression of her charming 
face is unlimited, unmistakable kindness, joined to a sensi- 
tive delicacy, by which all her impressions are easily turned 
to pain. When I called to mind the haughty beauty of 
Clotilde de Varni, her queenly look and bearing, the in- 
flexible will written on that brow, stern as the brow of a 
goddess, I understood that M. de Varni must have been 
peculiarly sensible to the candor, affectionate resignation, 
tender and devoted submission, which form the habitual 
expression of Edwige’s pale, sweet face. I knew that with 
his experience as an egotist and libertine he had found in 
her the companion suited to a man wearied with the agita- 
tions of the world, and adapted to play the part of a Sister 
of Charity, who is destined, by casting her treasures into 
his stormy soul, to heal the old wounds of heart and con- 
science, to reconcile the unhappy man to life, the guilty to 


176 


GLOTILDE. 


heaven, and to bring back to a hearth long deserted the 
angel of holy affections and peaceful virtues. 

“In a short time Antoinette and Madame Edwige were 
as intimate as the contrast between the modest life of a 
humble commoner and that of a great lady would permit. 
Both were young mothers. One had been so for two years, 
the other for six months. This maternal precedence gave 
to Antoinette great authority in all those grave questions, 
those divine nothings, which are the freemasonry of 
mothers. Oh, my friend, my heart breaks when I recall 
the lovely picture so often presented to my eyes in my little 
garden in the Rue Banasterie, shut in by the gray old walls* 
which separate us from the gigantic towers of the papal 
palace ! Seated at my window, occupied in making out 
old deeds or looking over blackening parchments, I would 
raise my head, from time to time, like an absent student, 
and perceive the two friends seated together under the 
acacia, which spreads like a yellow parasol in the corner 
of the garden. Elzear was in the arms of his mother, who 
bent over him in the attitude Raphael has given his 
Madonnas. My little Agricol hobbled along in the walk 
till he had reached a certain box-wood border, which he was 
forbidden to pass. Arrived there, he would return to the 
group. They would quietly pretend to take no notice of 
him. Then he would utter a little cry, half pleasure, half 
pain. His mother reaching her arms to him, he. would run 
into them, and soon, lifted on to Antoinette’s knees, he was 
smothered with kisses and caresses. And I, enjoying the 
sight, thanking God for the joy he has given me, would 
have been the happiest of men if the horrible work to 
which fate condemns me had not been ever present to my 
mind. 

“ I was not long in learning that their sojourn in Avig- 
non had clouded the happiness and calm M. de Yarni 


REMINISCENCES. 


177 


was beginning to enjoy. Conscience was lulled, but not ex- 
tinguished. On again seeing his house, the banks of the 
Rhone, the island of Barthelasse, where his memory always 
saw the pavilion of Mignard, the viscount felt that it was 
impossible to throw aside the past like a cloak soiled by a 
storm. The sombre, gloomy expression of evil times re- 
turned to his face, and poor Edwige, thinking he loved her 
less because she saw him less happy, did what loving and 
delicate hearts always do, suffered without complaining, 
concealing her first grief and preying upon it in her heart 
rather than let it be known. The viscount, accustomed to 
the jealous transports or passionate ' storms of the women 
of whom he had made conquests or victims at Versailles 
or elsewhere, took his wife’s silent resignation unkindly. 
Men who have exhausted their hearts in numerous and 
short-lived intrigues are at the same time presumptuous 
and timid, and with a singular contradiction, while they 
easily persuade themselves that they are loved , they are 
quick to imagine themselves no longer beloved. To this 
first cause of coolness between them was added for M. de 
Varni the revived remembrance of the horrible circum- 
stances of his first marriage. It is said that the amputated 
portions of a limb still feel at times a strong, strange sym- 
pathy with the pain of the arm or leg from which they 
have been severed : a sentiment somewhat similar tor- 
mented M. de Varni. Superstitious, like all guilty persons 
who have succeeded in extinguishing faith in their hearts, 
as the rich when they feel themselves growing old aspire 
to turn heavenward hearts corrupted or satiated with the 
possessions of this world, the viscount soon began to imagine 
that God intended to make Edwige the unconscious avenger 
of Clotilde’s wrongs, and to punish his former crimes by 
the instrumentality of this proud and lovely woman, who 
knew no feeling but love for him. Imperious and deter- 

M 


178 


CLOTILDE. 


mined, lie struggled bitterly against the idea of losing the 
affection whose early dawn had rendered him so happy, 
and whose bright rays he had expected to illumine the 
evening of his life, and the agitation of his mind now 
became apparent in his manner. Sometimes sullen and 
cold to his wife, sometimes returning to her with transports 
less resembling love than rage, he by turns saddened and 
affrighted her, and in proportion as he dreaded to lose the 
heart in which he had found a last refuge did he show 
himself powerless to retain it. He might have been com- 
pared to a gamester who, having but one card and one 
chance left, loses his skill through too great anxiety to gain, 
thus becoming himself accessory to his own bad fortune. 

“ The innocence and candor of Edwige left her defence- 
less against such a peril. A vague instinct, the desire for 
self-immolation, which is the vocation of women of quality, 
had secretly drawn her to the viscount, whose sad, misan- 
thropic manner seemed to tell of wounds to be healed and 
sufferings to be consoled. She had ingenuously rejoiced, 
during the early part of their married life, in seeing her 
benign influence gradually restoring peace to that prema- 
turely aged brow, but at the first sign which betrayed to 
her that this influence was insufficient or no longer existed, 
the poor child was grieved, and lost all confidence in her- 
self. Instead of reflecting that at twenty years of age, with 
her sweet expression and her pretty babe, she ought to be 
strong enough to dare indifference and heal any wounds, she 
imagined that she had presumed on her power, and that a 
simple country girl like her was not calculated to inspire a 
lasting affection in a man like M. de Yarni, accustomed to 
the splendors and beauties of the court. She accused her- 
self of weakness, and this feeling in her noble heart brought 
ever ready tears to her eyes. Now, to egotistical and des- 
potic men, who value love only as it is profitable to them, 


REMINISCENCES. 


179 


tears are odious and chilling ; they feel them a silent re- 
proach, a mute protestation, a proof that to merely love 
her is not enough to render a woman happy ; they find the 
consequent vexation more irritating than the resistance 
which masters or the wiles which allure them. 

“Madame Edwige is very pious, and she went most 
frequently to church to weep and pour out her sorrows 
at the foot of the altar. But sometimes, too, she came to 
confide some of her grief to Antoinette; and the latter, 
who had never suffered thus, who had as much faith in 
the depth of my love as in the truth of her own, unin- 
tentionally increased the grief of her noble friend. As 
ingenuous as she, my wife was disposed to regard as serious 
and irreparable these signs of discontent, suspicion and 
irritation, to which she could find no point of comparison 
in her own experience. Moreover, although Antoinette 
had always believed that Gaston de Tervaz had really 
perished with the crew of the Lys in battle with the 
English, and was consequently ignorant of all that had 
since passed, she had known the love of her dear Clotilde 
for Gaston, she had seen her constantly sad and unhappy 
during lier short union with the viscount, she had seen 
her wasting away and had been present at her death. 
This was reason enough for M. de Varni to inspire in her, 
not hatred, which is a feeling she will never know, but a 
sort of fear and disgust. When Edwige came to confide 
in her, she could trace in the subjects of complaint and 
sadness, ingenuously told by her poor afflicted friend, the 
consequences of that fatal influence exercised by the harsh, 
wicked character of M. de Varni, and she recalled to mind 
more clearly the sorrows and death of Clotilde. With 
the quick intuitions of all who love and suffer, Edwige 
divined a part of these impressions, questioned Antoinette, 
drew inferences from her answers, and ended by discover- 


180 


CLOTILDE ; 


ing that tlie first wife of M. de Varni had died of con- 
sumption, and probably of grief. Her imagination built 
thereupon a thousand sad fancies — alas ! far from the 
reality, but which still sufficed to destroy the peace of 
this tender, sensitive heart. I did not let this destructive 
work stop there. M. de Varni one day received from an 
unknown hand (need I tell you whose?) a mysterious let- 
ter, which informed him that after the tragedy of the 
pavilion of Mignard and your condemnation, Julie, in a 
moment of overwhelming grief, had related the whole sad 
story to father Thibaut ; that the latter, naturally a gossip, 
and no longer enjoying the full use of his senses, had 
repeated it to two or three young persons, your old com- 
panions, and customers at his tavern. The idea that his 
secrets had not been for ever buried in the waters of the 
Rhone, in Julie’s heart and in your own was a fresh tor- 
ture to M. de Varni, more acute than all else. I imagine 
he knew that I was cognizant of M. de Tervaz’ return 
to Avignon, that I had perhaps even met with him at the 
time, but as he could not trace to me any part in the 
events which followed that fatal return, and as he knew 
the haughty purity of Clotilde rendered her as inflexible 
as himself in the guardianship of her honor, M. de Varni 
had concluded that I was ignorant of all that followed. 
Moreover, in all my dealings with him, M. de Varni found 
me so calm, and to all appearances so free from all know- 
ledge of his crimes, that after having tried two or three 
times to read my thoughts he would have given up all 
suspicion in regard to me, even if the testimony I had 
given to the family Du Chesnay, on the occasion of his 
marriage, had not completed his fancied security. Do 
you now understand what must have been his grief and 
rage when he learned through my mysterious letter that 
those secrets so heavy on his conscience and his honor 


REMINISCENCES. 


181 


were in possession of two or three boatmen of the Rhone, 
and perhaps of some hidden enemy ? From that day he 
became more misanthropic and morose, and Edwige more 
unhappy and despairing. Caring little for the world, 
seeking solitude, coming sometimes to Antoinette, who 
failed to comfort her, the viscountess plunged into a gulf 
of vague and mournful reflections. Without being able 
exactly to fix upon what distressed her, she came to re- 
gard her husband either as a fearful maniac or a criminal, 
haunted, after years of calm and oblivion, by remorse for 
some long-past guilt. She did not cease to love him, but 
she felt for him that sentiment of anxious pity which we 
experience for an invalid whose disease we cannot define, 
or for a man placed by some moral or physical infirmity 
beyond the pale of society. Suspicious and quick to take 
umbrage, the viscount partially divined the impression he 
made upon Edwige; his pride was irritated by it; his 
character, already forbidding, became more soured ; the 
sufferings of the viscountess were augmented, and though 
no outward sign betrayed what was passing in that splen- 
did mansion, affection, confidence and peace finally for- 
sook those two divided hearts. 

“ At length, to strike the last blow, I sent to the vis- 
count, with the same precaution and the same mystery, a 
second anonymous letter, in which he was informed that 
a person who wished to avenge you had revealed to Edwige 
all the secrets of the pavilion of Mignard. M. de Varni’s 
troubled mind accepted this last information as a cruel 
truth, and from that time his second wife appeared to him 
really the avenger of the first. She inspired him with a 
superstitious terror which was a new torture. When she 
turned toward him her gentle face, which had forgotten 
how to smile, but to which one affectionate word would 
quickly havp recalled its expression of tenderness, he 
16 


182 


CLOTILDE, 


always thought she was about to speak to him of M. de 
Tervaz, of the night of the 25th November and the death 
of Gaston and Clotilde. He repulsed her with rage or 
fled from her in terror, and she, unable to understand this 
conduct, whispered to herself, as she choked back her tears, 
that doubtless some sad secret, some fatal design or’ an 
inexplicable hatred had for ever robbed her of M. de 
Yarni’s heart. 

“ Such, my dear Claude, has been the life led for more 
than three years by these two beings — the one, so guilty, 
the other, so good, condemned, unconsciously, to a long 
expiation. Those covert griefs and perpetual tortures have 
ended as they must. M. de Yarni, giving up the attempt 
to regain Edwige’s love and confidence, ceased to regard 
her as the angel of mediation, and looking upon her as the 
instrument of his torment, departed several months since 
for Paris. The viscountess has gone to bury her grief at 
Maleraygues, whence she occasionally writes to Antoinette 
letters filled with despondency and sadness. I dictate the 
answers, so you may rest content. 

“ I think, my dear Claude, that you will be satisfied with 
me. I feel, by the remorse that haunts me, that I have 
fulfilled but too well the dreadful commission with which 
you have charged me. Oh, had you but known the sweet, 
amiable Edwige, perhaps you would have been less pitiless. 
Such loveliness and goodness, such treasures of youth, 
devotion and love! and all lost, faded, ruined, to expiate 
the crime of another! Oh, dear and cruel Clotilde, how 
much kindness you have done me ! but how much unkind- 
ness you now do me! Was it necessary to make me so 
happy, in order to render me so guilty ? Adieu, Claude. 
A thousand tender remembrances to Julie.” 


REMINISCENCES. 


183 


The Viscount de Varni to Edwige. 

“ Paris, May, 1773. 

“ Madame, you will learn with surprise the resolution I 
have taken. The king, who overpowers me with kindness, 
has offered me a regiment ; and although I am no longer 
at an age for dreams and enthusiasm, I have accepted it 
with gratitude. They talk of an approaching war, and I 
thought the changes and chances of this new life would 
relieve me of the sorrows which I hoped to have for ever 
eluded when you accepted me. Perhaps, too, should I have 
the honor to serve the king with distinction, to meet 
danger bravely and to be wounded myself, you will again 
give me, if not your love, at least those sentiments of con- 
sideration and esteem of which some unknown cause 
seemed to have deprived me in the time we last spent 
together. I felt it best to inform you of a resolution 
which brings so great a change in my life. I also wished 
to make a request of you. 

“ As yet we have merely rumors of war, and wdiilst 
waiting I am free to go where I please. I have a strong 
desire to return to Maleraygues. It is a long time since I 
have seen my son, our Elzear, and whatever are the strange 
and mysterious causes which have gradually disunited us, 
whilst I have been unable either to foresee or explain 
them, I feel that I would experience a grateful emotion on 
meeting you again. But before annihilating the distance 
which separates us, I beg you to tell me truly if it would 
be too painful to you to be again with me. You must 
understand the importance I attach to my question and 
your reply, for if I thought that a motive I would not 
willingly inquire into could render you averse to having 
me break in upon your solitude — if I thought that the 
sight of me would be disagreeable to you, and destroy the 


184 


CLOTILDE. 


peace which you doubtless now enjoy — I would rather 
renounce this happiness, smother the last longings of a 
husband and a father, than again, even for a day, cause 
you the slightest pain. The heart has its pride, and mine 
shrinks from any attempt to cross your will, if that will 
repulses me, to reclaim your affection, if I have been un- 
fortunate enough to lose it, and to force you to receive me, 
if you do so only frogi a sense of duty. Forgive this sus- 
ceptibility in a man who has suffered too much to turn from 
affliction or readily believe anything that would console 
him. I am, whilst awaiting your answer, 

“ Your devoted 

“Viscount de Varni.” 

Edwige to the Viscount de Varni. 

“ Maleraygues, June, 1773. 

“Your letter, monsieur, awakened in me strong and very 
different emotions when X learned, on reading it, the step you 
thought it necessary to take, and the desire you express to me. 
On calculating the chances of renewed separation which 
military life will place between us, and the dangers you may 
meet with, I would have felt my sorrow increase had I not 
discovered, in the request you make of me, traces of a feel- 
ing I regarded as dead. During the six years I have passed 
alone at Maleraygues, a prey to my sad thoughts, hiding 
from my family, to the best of my ability, the sorrows with 
which I am consumed, and having no consolation but the 
sweet caresses of our Elzear, I have frequently questioned 
myself with the severity of a judge ; I have sought to learn 
by what involuntary wrong I have become undeserving of 
your love — I, who would have given my life to spare you 
pain. When you asked my hand of my father I knew I 
was not worthy of you, but something assured me that you 
had suffered, and I thought that by devotion and affection 


REMINISCENCES. 


185 


I might again bring back to you a portion of the peace 
weary souls are said to long for. I knew nothing of the 
world or of life, and I thought the sincere love of an honest 
heart would have some power oyer you. Such was my am- 
bition, monsieur, and it seemed justified by the first three 
years of our marriage. Those were three sweet, happy 
years : allow me to thank you for them. Later, I saw that 
happiness fade ; an unknown, inexplicable something grad- 
ually came between us to make me doubt your affection, to 
make you doubt mine. I have suffered, I have wept, but 
I can do myself this justice : if I have at times felt an in- 
clination to complain, the idea of accusing you has never 
entered my mind. 

“Now, you wish to return to Maleraygues. Maleray- 
gues is your own, monsieur, and all who inhabit it are more 
truly yours than its walls and towers. You will find this 
wild and melancholy place exactly as you left it. It is 
here I have kfiown happiness and for a time hoped to 
make you happy, and I have always been unwilling to 
change anything in its trees or stones which speaks to me 
of the past and of you. 

“ E. du Chesnay de Varni.” 

Edwige to Antoinette. 

“ Maleraygues, Feb., 1774. 

“You have been, my dear Antoinette, the confidante of 
my sorrows and sufferings : it is just that I should tell you 
also of my joy. Yes, my sweet and lovely friend, I have 
regained the heart and affection of M. de Yarni. Oh how 
I have suffered ! But may he be blessed — he who has 
caused me those sorrows ! It seems to me, to-day, that I 
can measure the grief of being exiled from that heart only 
by the joy of returning there. 

“ After having entered the service and placed himself at 


186 


CLOTILDE. 


the orders of the king, who had given him a regiment, M. 
de Yarni came last year to Maleraygues with the intention 
of passing some time there. One morning in autumn I 
was walking in one of the garden paths. M. de Varni, 
wishing to see how Elzear had progressed in his lessons, 
went into my room, where I kept my son’s hooks and copies. 
He rummaged some time in my drawers, and a moment 
after I heard a cry — oh! a cry which startled without 
alarming me, for it sounded to me as if some sudden joy 
had drawn it from M. de Varni. I soon saw him coming 
toward me : he was pale, breathless, his eyes shone with 
unwonted lustre ; in his trembling hand were some sheets 
which he showed me with delight. I glanced at them, and 
recognized my writing. It was a journal which I had 
written every evening since I had been able to give an 
account of my sufferings in my peaceful solitude at Maleray- 
gues. In this journal, the faithful echo of my feelings 
and thoughts, I had laid bare my heart. In it I reproached 
M. de Yarni for nothing, but I asked why he no longer 
loved me, why he was unwilling that I should love him. 
For what reason, I wrote, does he turn from me? Is there 
in my heart a single thought which is not his ? What does 
he imagine ? What does he suppose ? What is the mys- 
tery that separates us? And on this inexhaustible text 

I added over a thousand commentaries. Bless you, ingen- 

uous pages, which I thought to write for myself alone, and 
which yet have met his eye! Ah, if you knew, Antoi- 
nette, with what delight he thanked me, with what eager- 
ness he asked my pardon, with what tenderness he accused 
himself of having wronged me ! ‘ But you know nothing ?’ 

he asked me two or three times in the transports of his joy ; 

I I was mistaken, then ? you know nothing ?’ ‘ Why, what 

could I know ?’ I answered, in surprise. * I knew that I 
loved you then, and I know that I love you now and I 


REMINISCENCES. 


187 


pressed him to my heart as if I wished to regain in that 
one moment all my ten years of happiness. What, then, 
is this secret to which M. de Varni alluded, and which, if 
I had known it, would have raised that imaginary barrier 
between us ? It matters little : I do not wish to know it ; 
I do not wish to presume upon my happiness, lest it break 
again beneath my feet. Adieu, dear Antoinette ; laugh, if 
you will, at my bliss; you who are happy enough to under- 
stand it and good enough to sympathize with it. Elzear 
sends to Agricol a thousand joyous caresses, and I am 
“ Sincerely yours, 

“Edwige de Varni.” 

The Viscount de Varni to Dominique. 

“ Maleraygues, Dec., 1774. 

“ My dear M. Ermel : 

“ The interest you take in all that concerns me induces 
me to inform you of two events, one of which overwhelms 
me with joy, while the other, which some years since 
would have seemed a pleasure, now saddens me. Madame 
de Varni has just presented me with a daughter who is 
the most exquisite little creature you can imagine. We 
call her Clementine, and in spite of my gray hair she 
smiles upon me in a charming manner. I could not tell 
you all that this child is to me : she is the most blessed 
tie that cements my reunion with Edwige, she is the sweet 
hope of my old age, the living prayer which intercedes for 
me with heaven ; she is love, favor, pardon. But, for the 
moment, I must say farewell to the treasures I have found 
here. An order from the king recalls me to my regiment. 
If peace had been maintained, I would have demanded 
and obtained an indefinite furlough, but since our intrepid 
young Louis XVI. has mounted the throne, it is more 
than ever to be desired that France should come to the 


188 


CLOTILDE. 


succor of American independence. To leave the service at 
this time would be dishonorable, and if my heart coun- 
selled me to do so, my pride would not permit it. I am 
preparing, therefore, to depart immediately, leaving here 
all that I love, and I ask of you, my dear M. Ermel, the 
continuation of your good services, in case my wife and 
children should have need of them. 

“I am, my dear Monsieur Ermel, yours affectionately, 

“Viscount de Varni.” 

Claude to Dominique. 

“Baveno, March, 1776. 

“ Restrain, my dear Dominique, all feelings of surprise. 
Julie will follow this letter in a few days. 

“ As I wrote you three years since,* after many cruel 
disappointments and long anticipation, Julie gave birth 
to a son, whom we have been happy enough to keep. At 
present, our little Jerome is a fine, hearty boy, who prom- 
ises me a robust, dauntless heir. I no longer fear a break 
in the chain of three generations, to which Clotilde be- 
queathed her vengeance, and I can hope, if you grow weak 
at Avignon, we will not at Baveno. Since that time I 
have gained courage to separate from J ulie, in the senti- 
ment which binds me to the work I prosecute. 

“ You have acquired, and I thank you for it, the confi- 
dence of M. de Varni. Antoinette has become the friend 
of the viscountess, and in consequence you are, if you 
desire it, all powerful in their house. 

“M. de Varni, you tell me, has left France. He em- 
barked with the first troops sent to America. Madame de 
Varni is alone at Maleraygues. She is rich : she must re- 
quire a governess or a nurse for her daughter Clementine. 
That governess, that nurse, shall be Julie. 

* This letter has been omitted by the notary as of no consequence. 


REMINISCENCES. 


189 


“Do not be astonished and ask what is my plan and 
w r hat my end : it is not necessary that you should know 
them. Julie and I are coming on the stage, for truly, 
with your studies of the human heart and the impercep- 
tible annoyances you cause our enemies, we should allow 
years to pass without punishing or striking. 

“All that I ask of you is that you will profit by your 
influence over Madame de Yarni to establish Julie there. 
This I exact, I demand, and if you fail in your oath, I 
will leave for France, and it will be on you and on yours 
that I will deal my first blow. 

“ Julie will knock at your door. It is for you to invent 
the fable you must palm on your wife and Madame de* 
Yarni. Twenty years have passed since Julie left Avig- 
non, and she will spend but a few hours there. She has 
asked of me the favor to allow her to see Antoinette once 
more, and I thought it might be granted, for she will not 
betray herself, and Antoinette will be easy to deceive. 

“ I charge you with the inventions requisite to gain 
Julie admittance to Madame de Varni. She is sure no 
eye will recognize her, as M. de Yarni is absent. Once 
installed in Maleraygues, give yourself no farther concern 
about her. I will dictate to her what she must do, and I 
know what to dictate. 

“ Adieu, Dominique ; do not hesitate, do not turn pale, 
above all, do not seek to cross my inflexible will, for you 
will obviate no misfortune, and the spirit of Clotilde, which 
breathes unsoftened in me, will know how to punish you 
for your refusal. Adieu. 

“Claude.” 

Julie to Claude. 

“Maleraygues, May, 1776. 

“ Here I am, my dear Claude,’ established with Madame 
Edwige de Yarni. Before telling you of my installation 


190 


CLOTILDE. 


at Maleraygues, I must say a few words about my arrival 
at Avignon. 

“Dominique Ermel was waiting for me on the road, half 
a mile from the town. He seemed much agitated, and very 
sad and depressed. I alighted from the carriage ; he took 
me in his, and taught me my lesson. After the letter you 
had written to him several weeks previous, he had hastened 
to make the arrangements with Madame Edwige de Yarni. 
He had recommended me to her under the name of Ste- 
phanie Durand, the widow of one of his relatives who 
had died in a little village of Dauphiny, leaving his wife 
without means. He has represented me as so unhappy, so 
isolated, that to receive me into so hospitable a dwelling 
as that of Madame Edwige, where I would be treated more 
as a friend than a servant, and could take care of little 
Clementine, would be to deliver me from despair and re- 
store me to life. Madame Edwige, who is very fond of An- 
toinette, and has had Dominique for her adviser since M. de 
Yarni’s departure, granted this request most gladly, saying 
that Dominique was doing her a great service, as she would 
be very happy to have a companion in her solitude who 
could help her to relieve the monotony of her days and 
share with her the sweet cares of maternity. The matter 
was then arranged, and I had nothing to do but to play 
my part. 

“For the moment, the question was how to see An- 
toinette without betraying myself or being recognized. 
Twenty years had passed since we had last embraced at 
Clotilde’s deathbed ; I was much changed, and it seemed 
to me that even the eyes of friendship would be unable to 
recognize me. Nevertheless, for greater safety, Dominique 
procured for me a light wig, which gives me the strangest 
appearance you can imagine, entirely covering my hair 
(which in spite of the forty years which have passed over 


REMINISCENCES. 


191 


it is still so black and thick) ; besides this, I muffled up in 
a black hood drawn over my forehead and partialty con- 
cealing my face. Add to this a large cloak which covered 
me from head to foot, beneath which my figure was 
entirely hidden, and you will understand that there could 
not remain much of that Julie whom your loving eyes 
still insist upon calling beautiful. 

“ It was in this strange costume that I knocked at the 
little door in the Rue Banasterie. My heart beat vio- 
lently. Antoinette ran to meet me; she scarcely looks 
older, is a little stouter, which is exceedingly becoming to 
her; no other alteration — the same repose in her expres- 
sion, the same kindness in her smile. ‘There, my dear 
friend/ said Dominique to her, with an emotion he vainly 
strove to conquer — ‘ there is our cousin, Stephanie Durand, 
who wishes to pass a night under our roof before going 
to Maleraygues.’ Thereupon Antoinette embraced me. 
With what feelings did I return that caress ! 

“ For the first few instants emotion had so altered my 
voice that nothing could betray me to Antoinette. But at 
the expiration of an hour I had recovered myself, and 
talked more freely. I saw Antoinette look at me with a 
certain anxiety. It seemed as if my voice reminded her 
of something long past. Dominique made me a sign which 
recalled me again to myself, and Antoinette, moved for 
an instant, again appeared completely bewildered. The 
evening passed thus, without further adventure. About 
ten o’clock I complained of fatigue, and asked permission 
to retire. It was then, my dear Claude, that my resolution 
almost forsook me. Faithful to the laws of hospitality in 
her rank, Antoinette had had a bed made for me in her 
room. When we were alone there, Antoinette fell on her 
knees. I followed her example. After a short, earnest 
prayer, she said, half turning toward me, ‘We will now 


192 


CLOTILDE. 


pray, as I have done every night for twenty years, for two 
friends who are very dear to me, and whose memory is 
always present to my heart. They were named Clotilde 
and Julie.’ Then, again joining her pure, white hands, 
‘ My God !’ she murmured, in a low tone, ‘ receive, in your 
mercy, Clotilde and Julie, so cruelly tried in this world. 
My God, take from me the happiness you have granted me, 
if a sacrifice is required before those two sorrowing souls 
can gain your presence.’ When we arose my face was bathed 
in tears. She perceived it, and throwing her arms around 
me, ‘ Stephanie,’ she said, ‘ I do not understand it. I have 
known you but a few hours, and already I love you ; and 
you, too, love me a little, do you not?’ I threw myself, 
trembling, upon her heart. ‘Poor thing!’ she resumed, 
deceived by my emotion. ‘ You are unhappy. You, too, 
have lost those dear to you, and I have recalled your grief. 
Stephanie, forgive me. Henceforth you will not be alone. 
My affection is yours, and you will find at Maleraygues the 
best and most amiable of women, the Viscountess Edwige 
de Varni.’ In reply, I could only press her to me with 
redoubled tenderness. In doing so I touched a little cross 
she wore in her bosom. She said, ‘ It is Julie’s cross. 
Since her death this cross has never left me. Ah ! I loved 
her dearly. . . . Stay, do you know, that which first in- 
terested me in you was that just now, in the parlor, when 
you spoke, your voice reminded me of hers, and now you 
look — Oh yes, you are like her. I know it now. It 
was that which attracted me so quickly.’ 

“ How was it possible to resist such words, such thoughts ? 
My courage somewhat deserted me. Happily, seeing me 
become faint and pale, Antoinette thought I was overcome 
by fatigue. She excused herself, and left me. A quarter 
of an hour later we were both in bed and our lamps 
extinguished.* 


REMINISCENCES, . 


193 


“ The following morning, at daybreak, Dominique rapped 
at the door, for it had been agreed that we should leave 
very early. I was awake and ready, though the first rays 
of light were scarcely beginning to find their way through 
the windows of my room. I rose softly, and stole on tiptoe 
to Antoinette’s bed. The emotions of the preceding night 
bad been gradually calmed, and at that moment she was 
sleeping peacefully. I bent over her, and touching her 
face with my lips, ‘ Adieu, dear friend, dear sister, adieu !’ 
I murmured. ‘ May thy dreams be a continuation of the 
waking thoughts of thy heart ! May the confused voices 
of sleep whisper to thee that it is indeed Julie who caresses 
and loves thee !’ Then tearing myself away from this 
pure, chaste pillow, I left the room noiselessly. Dominique 
was waiting for me. I entered his little carriage with him, 
and the next day we arrived at Maleraygues. 

“ You cannot imagine, my dear Claude, with what 
inexpressible kindness I was received by Madame Edwige 
de Varni. Picture Antoinette six or seven years younger; 
give her, instead of her fair, sweet beauty, irregular but 
charming features; make her a viscountess, and you will 
have an idea of the appearance, loveliness and manners of 
Madame Edwige. I came here almost disposed to hate her, 
and from the first day I felt myself disarmed. Her son 
Elzear, two years younger than Agricol Ermel, is in my 
eyes disgraced by his resemblance to M. de Yarni. But if 
he retains the happy qualities his childhood seems to 
promise, he will be as good as his father has been wicked. 
As for Clementine, I have never seen anything to compare 
to this lovely little creature. She is the joy, the sole joy, 
of her mother, who cannot bear to leave her even for a 
minute, and who said to me, on leading me to her cradle, 
‘You shall not take my place with Clementine, but you 
must assist me. She shall have two mothers.’ Such, my 
17 N 


194 


CLOTILDE. 


dear Claude, was the manner in which Madame Edwige de 
Yarni installed me. She would lead you to suppose it is I 
who oblige her. She silently thanks me for having come 
here to enliven her solitude, to share her maternal joys and 
divert her mind from the anxiety caused by the absence of 
M. de Yarni, who sailed six months since, under orders of 
the Marquis de Bouille, and is exposed to the perils and 
fatigues of a distant war. Oh, Claude, Clotilde is not yet 
revenged. It suffices to give but a glance at this household, 
so calm and so happy, on these two children, who have 
crowned all the hopes of the viscount, to see that our work 
has not yet commenced. Give me your commands. But I 
beg, I beseech you, do not keep me waiting too long. Do not 
give me time to become attached to the poor creatures who 
have done no wrong, who already love me, and whom I, too, 
shall end by loving. You know I am courageous. I will 
not shrink at the time to act. Adieu !” 

Claude to Julie. 

“Baveno, Nov., 1777. 

“Julie, if I have understood aright the details you have 
given me, Dominique ErmeFs letters,, and the fragments of 
the correspondence of Edwige and Antoinette and of the 
viscount with Dominique, M. de Yarni, after a few years of 
misunderstanding, vague suspicions and secret annoyances, 
which had sown disunion and trouble between his wife and 
himself, had again regained Edwige’s affection, and with it 
love, happiness and peace. To render this reunion still 
sweeter and more perfect, a little girl (an angel of peace 
and pardon, as he calls her) sealed their reconciliation, and 
taught the viscount to believe, with the magic power of a 
child’s smile, that God will forgive crimes which the world 
appears long since to have forgotten. It is, then, on Edwige 
and Clementine that his happiness rests. Moreover, Elzear 


REMINISCENCES. 


195 


is sacred to us, as in him must be continued this abhorred 
race, since Clotilde decreed that three generations should 
fall beneath our blows. Julie, recall your courage; it is 
Edwige and Clementine whom you must strike. Or rather, 
why harm the mother? Let the child die, and the vengeance 
will be but the more terrible : the mother w T ill follow her to 
the grave, but first she will have time to suffer. 

“ You are admirably situated to accomplish the task I 
set you ; always with this child, you can watch the auspi- 
cious moment. You need be in no haste; the war in 
America is scarcely begun, and doubtless years will pass 
before M. de Varni can return. Wait, if you desire to do 
so, till the confidence Madame Edwige places in you has 
become so perfect that there can be nothing to interfere 
with you when the time shall have arrived. Watch, listen, 
be attentive, let the undying memory of Clotilde, and my 
inflexible will, be to you a double armor against weakness, 
hesitation or pity. You understand — do you not? — that 
the decree cannot be repealed, and that if my plot had 
not been drawn beforehand, I should never have had the 
courage to separate from you ! Adieu. Jerome is well. 
I kiss you on his cheek, and am for ever yours.” 

Julie to Claude. 

“ Maleraygtjes, March, 1778. 

“ Oh, I beseech you, Claude, I ask it on my knees, re- 
tract the fearful order you have given me. I shall never 
have courage to fulfil it. 

“Kill Clementine! Strike the lovely child who con- 
stantly smiles on me, who reaches to me her little hands, 
and who learned to lisp my name almost as soon as her 
mother’s? Oh, you cannot exact it! I will do all you 
wish — I will set fire to Maleraygues, I will kill Edwige, I 
will kill Elzear, but not this child ! Her fair, rosy face 


196 


CLOTILDE. 


would be ever before me ; she would haunt me even in my 
sleep ; she would drive me mad ! You cannot wish your 
wife to go mad, that your son might some day hear that 
he had had an insane mother. Claude, you do not know 
this little Clementine. Could you but see her you would be 
.the first to say, Spare her! Our beloved Clotilde could not 
have exacted such a crime. I am sure if any one had 
told her that the first victim of that hereditary vengeance 
would be a child three years old, so lovely and so engag- 
ing that there is a charm in loving her, a pleasure in 
looking at her, Clotilde would have fallen back in her 
bed seized with fear, and that cruel will would have died 
on her lips. I repeat it, Claude, I shall never have the 
courage. I too am a mother, and if any came to kill my 
Jerome, were it even a starving wolf, it seems to me that 
I would tear with my teeth and my nails the ravening beast 
who should try to take my child. Kill Clementine ! The 
very idea overwhelms me with despair. Ah, I told you 
truly you should not give me time to become better ac- 
quainted with Edwige and the child. You give me this 
command because you are far away, because you have 
before you only the recollection of the crimes of the vis- 
count, but hereafter, should I return to you with the blood 
of this child upon my brow, on my hands, above all, on my 
heart, I would strike you with horror ! You would cease 
to love me ; and you desire always to love me, do you not ? 
Your love is dearer than your hatred. Ah, forgive me; 
my mind wanders. How would it be when the time came 
for me to act and strike ? I beg you write soon and give 
me some other order. I am ready for all else, but mercy 
for Clementine! Or rather, mercy for Julie! I assure you 
I should not survive this child, and the executioner could 
only gain pardon in falling with her victim.” 


REMINISCENCES. 


197 


Claude to Julie. 

“ Bayeno, May, 1778. 

“ No pardon, — no pity : it is Clementine who must fall", 
and no other. Clotilde wills it, and I command it. 
Adieu.” 

Julie to Claude. 

“ Maleraygues, June, 1778. 

“ I thought for a moment, my dear Claude, that Provi- 
dence would spare me the horrible grief of committing a 
crime in obeying you, or the still greater grief of disobey- 
ing you. But Clementine did not die. 

“ She had been ailing for several days. One evening we 
were by her little bed, Edwige and I, when the child com- 
plained of a burning thirst and great lassitude. I took her 
hand softly, and found that she had fever. Edwige, as if 
her anxiety and grief had rendered her incapable of dis- 
tinguishing the symptoms of disease, followed all the 
changes of my face with her eyes. I touched Clemen- 
tine’s lips : they were burning ; and bending a little nearer, 
I thought that her face, so fresh and rosy, was beginning 
to be marked with large bluish spots. I shuddered in 
spite of myself. ‘ She is very ill !’ instantly cried her poor 
mother, in a heartrending voice, with her eyes still fixed 
upon mine. Immediately she flew like a maniac toward 
the staircase. Her servants hurried to her. Then with 
that frightful clearness which is the heroism of mothers 
in such moments, she chose those of her people of whom 
she was most sure, and gave all the necessary orders. In 
a few moments a horse was saddled, and a servant was 
gallopping along the road to Alais, charged to bring the 
family physician dead or alive. 

“We waited three hours, both seated by the bedside of 
the child, who now and then uttered a little plaintive 


198 


CLOTILDE. 


moan. I had seized her hands, so that her mother could 
not take them : the fever was increasing. Claude, I can- 
not tell you of Edwige. Alas ! all that I could say of her 
anguish, of her dry and haggard eye fixed immovably on 
Clementine or me, of her sudden trembling at the least 
noise which could be mistaken for the arrival of the doc- 
tor, — would it soften you ? or rather, cruel man, to tell you 
of that tender, loving heart, is it not showing you the place 
in which to strike ? At last the physician came. I yielded 
to him Clementine^ hand: he remained a moment calm 
and cold, examining the little invalid with deep attention. 
Then giving the mother an insignificant direction to attend 
to, in order to send her away for a moment, he bent quickly 
toward me, and murmured in my ear these two terrible 
syllables : ‘ The croup F Claude, I knew it. Had not this 
frightful disease already taken from me one of our chil- 
dren, and could my maternal experience be deceived by 
the first symptoms? Claude, I was sure of it, and yet I 
had said nothing. 

“You must forgive me. From that instant all was for- 
gotten — Gaston, Clotilde, the will of HySres, your com- 
mands, the mission with which you had charged me. I 
forgot why I was at Maleraygues; I saw only that child 
threatened with death, and that mourning mother, who 
wrung her hands in silence, as alarmed by the reticence 
of the doctor as I had been by his words. Ah, you were 
right: Edwige could not survive her daughter; it would 
break her heart to lose her. For myself, it would have 
been easier for me to strike Clementine in an hour of fury 
and frenzy, carried away for the moment by the fear of 
displeasing you, by the remembrance of Clotilde, by my 
own hatred for the viscount, than to forsake her at such a 
time, making myself an accomplice of her disease, and 
deceiving the confidence of Edwige, who continually told 


REMINISCENCES. 


199 


me: ‘Listen well, Stephanie, to all the doctor says. You 
see, I get confused : you must act for us both, you must 
save my child — you will be her second mother!’ Oh 
no, nothing, nothing in the world, could have given me 
strength to resist that supplicating voice. . . . Curse me 
if you will, Claude, but the recollection of the little one 
the croup had taken from me drew me still more strongly 
to the poor sick child ; when I saw one of those symptoms 
appear which had so horribly tortured me, I felt as if 
God himself, in giving me that sad experience, had des- 
tined it to be an invincible tie to bind me to Clementine. 
Sweet and cruel illusion ! it was again my child whom I 
thought I was nursing as I stayed by the bed, helping 
Edwige, who could do nothing but weep. You see, Claude, 
I tell you all. Overwhelm me with reproaches, but do not 
cease to love me. 

“ Three days passed thus. The doctor told us that the 
next night would be decisive. He prepared a potion, order- 
ing us expressly to administer it to Clementine at the 
moment it struck midnight. Four days had passed since 
Edwige or I had lain down. I insisted upon her taking a 
little rest, promising her to follow exactly the physician’s 
orders. She looked at me without appearing to understand 
me, and taking an arm-chair, seated herself at the bedside, 
her eyes still fixed upon her daughter. 

“We thus began the watch together. We did not 
exchange a word. A murmur, a look, sufficed to tell each 
what must be done. Clementine’s breathing was much 
oppressed. Her large, open eyes seemed disproportioned to 
her thin face. I pulled up her covering, from time to time, 
as she disarranged it in the restlessness of fever. Silence 
reigned without. 

“Edwige’s health is delicate. Whether she had pre- 
sumed too much on her strength, or whether an irresistible 


200 


CLOTILDE. 


stupor overcame her, brought on by excessive grief and 
anxiety, a little before eleven o’clock I saw her head fall 
back on her chair. Her hands, which she was holding 
toward the bed, sank on her knees. Her eyelids closed; 
she slept. 

“ I was then alone, watching by the bed. Time passed. 
A few moments longer, and midnight would strike. Mid- 
night ! the hour when it was necessary for Clementine to 
drink that potion, the last hope, the last prescription, 
of the physician. 

“ Then, Claude, a terrible idea came to my mind — an idea 
sent by Clotilde from the depths of the tomb. I thought to 
myself that, as Edwige slept, I had only to let the hour 
pass without administering the potion to the sick child, and 
all would be over. I, too, could feign to have been over- 
come with sleep, and the mother herself had lost all right 
to blame me. Oh, how can I tell you all I felt at this 
thought? A cold, sharp steel seemed to enter my heart. 
My eyes wandered incessantly from Edwige to the clock, 
whose hand was gradually approaching midnight. The 
minutes rolled by, now with maddening slowness, now with 
horrible rapidity. I fancied that I heard the voice of a 
demon whispering in the inmost recesses of my soul. My 
brain burned. Dizziness and madness took possession of 
my whole being. ‘ No,’ said I to myself — 4 no, it is not pos- 
sible. It would be more infamous than to kill her.’ And 
my clenched hands turned toward the child, to whose un- 
equal and suffocating cough I listened with terror. 

tf In the midst of this anguish the first stroke of midnight 
sounded. I arose, stood motionless, reaching my arms 
toward the stand on which were placed the phial and the 
cup, but I had not yet touched them, and I still listened to 
the striking of the clock, which appeared to me to last a 
century. All at once, oh wonder ! Edwige, without awak- 


REMINISCENCES. 


201 


ennig, her eyes half opened, rose softly, advanced toward 
the stand, took the phial, poured the contents into the cup, 
then turning to Clementine, raised her on her pillow and 
made her drink the potion without losing a drop. Then, 
still obeying that instinct which had spoken to her in her 
sleep, Edwige repaired the disorder of the bed, laid the sick 
child carefully down, drew the curtain, and returning to 
her arm-chair, fell back into it noiselessly. She had not 
awakened. 

“ An hour after, she reopened her eyes. For an instant 
her despair was terrible when she saw by the clock that 
midnight was past, but I hastened to tell her what she 
had done before I had had time to take her place. Then, 
doubtless, the first ray of hope beamed in her heart, for I 
saw a faint smile brighten her face, livid with fatigue and 
tears. We raised the curtain of the bed. Clementine was 
sleeping quietly ; her breathing had become soft and equal, 
and the spots had disappeared from her cheeks, now as 
pale and unpolished as the plumage of the albatross. 
Edwige clasped her hands and fell upon her knees; she 
remained thus till daybreak, and in spite of myself I 
added my prayers to hers, and besought God to cure that 
child so deeply loved. In the morning the doctor came ; 
he looked attentively at Clementine, felt her hands, her 
forehead, and declared that all danger was past. Edwige 
threw herself into my arms with incredible joy, whispering 
to me the word that during these three days she had not 
once pronounced : * It was the croup, was it not V I bowed 
my head without answering her : we understood each other, 
and I judged from the joy of Edwige all that she had suf- 
fered. 

“Since that night Clementine has become gradually 
better, and she is already allowed to run in the garden.” 


202 


CLOTILDE. 


Viscount de Varni to Edwige. 

“March 3 , 1779 . 

“My dear Edwige: 

“ I received your letter telling me of the horrible danger 
our Clementine has passed through ; on reading it I grew 
pale and trembled, as if the danger was still present. But 
now she is well again, is she not? I shall find her, as I 
left her, fresh and rosy ? She must have grown ; she will 
know my name ; she will have learned the pretty prattle 
of little girls — music sweeter than that of the nightingale. 
Oh, I never weary of talking of her; she is your second 
self, and in loving Clementine my love for you has a 
double existence. 

“ I will say nothing of the war : I reserve such recitals 
for our chimney corner and those pleasant evenings at 
Maleraygues. I have been fortunate enough to distinguish 
myself in battle, and I know that M. de Bouill6, who has 
expressed sincere friendship for me, has sent my name to 
the king. You understand, my dear, good Edwige, that 
I am no longer at the age to be intoxicated by military 
glory ; what I most desire, now that I have paid my debt 
to my country, is repose in that peaceful home life with 
Elzear, Clementine and yourself. I have also profited by 
an armistice to ask permission to return to France, and 
leave has been granted me. I depart in a few weeks, and 
before many months have past I shall be with you. 

“Farewell, then, for a short time, dear Edwige. On 
arriving at Toulon I will send a courier to you, to let 
you know the exact day when you will see me at Maler- 
aygues. Till I come, dear, take good care of yourself, 
take good care of the children who reopen for me a 
future, as your sweet affection renewed my youth. Thank 
for me that Stephanie Durand of whom you speak to me 
with such affectionate gratitude, and who has helped you 


REMINISCENCES. 


203 


take charge of Clementine. Clementine! I must close 
with this charming name, as I began with it! I feel for 
this child a tenderness I cannot express. After the sad 
differences and misunderstandings which had separated 
us, Clementine was to us the pledge of a reconciliation 
which nothing can henceforth terminate. To me she is 
yet more. I have always thought that a man happy 
enough to have a daughter must sooner or later see his 
faults wiped out before God, because he has a mediatrix 
who purifies by praying for him. Edwige, take good care 
of Clementine! She and you — you are my two angels, 
and it seems to me that you are but one single being, 
one single soul, combining your love for me, as I unite 
you in mine.” 

Claude to Julie. 

“Baveno,. July, 1779. 

“I learn from Dominique and yourself that the Vis- 
count de Varni is expected at Maleraygues in the early 
part of September, yet nothing is changed in that house 
to which I sent you. Clementine is well; Edwige is 
happy ; she expects her husband, is beguiled by her chil- 
dren ; a few weeks longer, and M. de Varni will return 
to Maleraygues, and nothing will have troubled the hap- 
piness he hopes to find there. Thus, Julie, my orders have 
been executed ; and you think I will allow it ! Listen. 

“I tell you once again, M. de Varni must not find you 
at Maleraygues and Clementine must be dead before he 
puts his foot in the house again. It was for this end only 
that I sent you to Madame Edwige. If you betray me, I 
will curse you, I will condemn myself never to see you 
again. You will become to me a stranger, a Stephanie 
Durand, destined to remain at Maleraygues, far from 
Jerome and me, and with the viscount, the murderer of 
Clotilde, your tormentor and mine. 


204 


CL 0 TILDE. 


“ But no, I dare not even leave you this chance. Decide 
and act. If you will not, I must. I will go to Maleray- 
gues. I will kill Clementine in broad daylight. Then I 
will say to the viscount, ‘ I am Claude Bioux. Do with me 
what you will/ 

“ Julie, this is my last command. You know me well 
enough to know that this is no vain threat, and that in 
refusing to obey me you condemn me to death, without 
saving Clementine. Now choose. Your decision will prove 
to me whether I still have a wife, or whether Julie is no 
longer worthy to be loved by Claude.” 

Dominique to Claude. 

“ Maleraygues, Sept. 16, 1779. 

“Unhappy man! You would have it so. . . . Be 
satisfied, then, or rather, Claude, shudder with horror, 
affright and despair. 4 Choose/ you wrote to Julie, 4 be- 
tween Baveno and Maleraygues — between my love and 
that child. Obey, or I will never see you again, that I 
may know if I still have a wife, or if Julie has ceased to 
be worthy of Claude/ You have been obeyed, but you 
will never see her again. Julie has proved herself worthy 
of Claude, but you have no longer a wife. 

44 I learned, from a letter of Madame Edwige’s to Antoi- 
nette, that M. de Varni had landed at Toulon, that he had 
sent a messenger to announce his arrival at Maleraygues, 
and that he was expected there on the 15th of September, 
which was yesterday. Madame Edwige, with her usual 
kindness, invited Antoinette and myself to join her in 
welcoming the viscount to Maleraygues, and share with her 
the joy of his return. At the same time I received a few 
lines from Julie, betraying such frightful anxiety, such 
poignant affliction, that, sufficiently distressed at her 


REMINISCENCES. 


205 


presence in that house, I could only conclude that you 
had given her some dreadful command, and that some 
terrible misfortune was threatening. This idea took such 
hold of me that I persuaded Antoinette not to accompany 
me to Maleraygues, on the pretexts that the road to the 
Cevennes had been washed by the storms, that Agrieol’s 
studies ought not to be interrupted, and we could not leave 
him alone at Avignon. In a word, I gave her all the bad 
reasons we seek when we are at a loss for good ones. She 
seemed astonished at my insisting, but submitted to my 
wishes with her habitual gentleness. To-day I thank 
Heaven that I was able to keep her from a place where, in 
the space of a few minutes, we suffered every description 
of terror and anguish. 

“ I arrived alone, then, at Maleraygues, the day before 
yesterday. Madame Edwige and the children welcomed 
me as if I was one of the family. The viscount was 
expected the next morning. Little Clementine was trying 
on a pretty white dress which she was to wear on her 
father’s arrival. She was so lovely that a strange presenti- 
ment filled my eyes with tears as I looked at her. As for 
Julie, she was pale and rigid as a statue, and if Madame 
Edwige had been less absorbed by the idea of seeing M. de 
Yarni, she would assuredly have seen that some strange 
preoccupation absorbed the mind of her dear ‘Stephanie 
Durand.’ This singular contrast continued throughout the 
day — the delight of the children, the less noisy but as 
intense joy of Madame Edwige and Julie’s silent, deep 
preoccupation. 

“ In the evening, when we retired, Julie begged me, in a 
whisper, to accompany her to her room, and without utter- 
ing a word she handed me your last letter. I shuddered as 
I read it, and when I reached the last line, ‘ What do you 
intend to do ?’ I asked her, in a trembling voice. ‘ I do not 
18 


206 


CLOTILDE. 


know yet/ she answered. ‘To-morrow God will perhaps 
inspire me!’ and she signed to me to leave her alone. 
Our manner was that of criminals who meet* for the last 
time, and cannot find so much as a word to comfort each 
other. I pressed her hand, and left her. The next moment 
I heard sobs and tears. I peeped through the door. Julie 
was on her knees, prostrate before a crucifix given her by 
Clotilde, which she had taken to Maleraygues. 

“You can readily understand that we slept but little that 
night under the roof usually so peaceful. The next morn- 
ing (that was yesterday), with the earliest rays of the sun, 
Elzear’s joyous shouts and Clementine’s chatterings re- 
sounded through the house. I rose in haste, and descended 
to the garden. Madame Edwige came and joined me 
there, and then Julie. 

“ I observed the latter with attention. By her swollen 
eyelids, disordered clothing and the traces of fatigue evi- 
dent in her whole person, it was easy to see that she had not 
been in bed. You know, Claude, how black and beautiful 
her hair still was. Well, under the borders of her cap I 
distinctly saw whole locks entirely whitened by that one 
terrible night. Clementine ran toward her, calling her, as 
usual, ‘Mamma Stephanie!’ Your wife took her in her 
arms, and pressed her to her bosom with such force that the 
poor child could not restrain a cry of surprise and fear. 
‘ See that good Stephanie !’ whispered Madame Edwige in 
my ear. ‘ Really, she loves Clementine almost as much as 
I do. What a treasure you have given me in her, Mon- 
sieur Dominique !’ 

“ According to our calculations, M. de Varni might be 
expected at eleven. It was then nine. Now, Claude, I 
must here give you some details requisite for a clear under- 
standing of the recital my trembling hand is obliged to 
trace. 


REMINISCENCES. 


207 


“The road from Alais to Maleraygues, by which we 
expected the viscount, ends at a little hamlet named 
Roque-Mille, where rises one of those numerous chains of 
hills and mountains which form the Cevennes. At Roque- 
Mille, you follow a cross road which winds across a steep 
ascent, the highest point of which is a tableland dotted 
here and there with groves of pines. It is called the Pic- 
des-Ch^vres. From this Pic-des-Ch£vres can be seen the 
irregular building of Maleraygues, with its two towers and 
gable ends, about half a league distant, standing boldly 
against the dark background of massive elms and chest- 
nuts. The only road practicable for horses and carriages 
from this tableland to Maleraygues, instead of going in a 
straight line, makes a circuit which occupies two hours. 
But for hunters, persons on foot or in haste, there is a path, 
reaching to the castle, which at a distance looks like a 
chasm in the side of the mountain. It is bounded on the 
right by large masses of granite almost devoid of vegeta- 
tion ; on the left is a steep, slippery precipice which ends 
in an immense ravine, where amid thickets of briers and 
rushes flow the torrents formed by the rain. This ravine, 
owing to its frightful depth, has received from the inhabit- 
ants of the country the name of the Trou-du-Renard. As 
if to relieve the eye somewhat from the picturesque horror 
of this wild spot, beautiful sweet-briars and lovely clumps 
of blue gentian grow along the upper edge of the precipice, 
and form a wreath of wild flowers here and there beside 
the path to Maleraygues. 

“The weather was so beautiful that Madame Edwige, 
sure that her husband would leave his horse at the Pic- 
des-Ch&vres, and in order to reach home sooner would take 
the path to Maleraygues, proposed that we should go to 
meet him. We started on our walk, and certainly no 
one who could have seen our little party strolling along 


208 


CLOTILDE. 


on that beautiful autumnal morning could have imagined 
any of us agitated by other thoughts than those of hope 
and joy. Elzear, lithe and active as a deer, ran on be- 
fore, telling us that, thanks to his limbs of sixteen, he 
would be the first to embrace his father. I gave my arm 
to Madame Edwige, who, slightly agitated, leaned upon me 
and advanced slowly, looking musingly around her u]3on the 
sunshine and the azure sky, in such harmony with the re- 
joicings of her heart. Julie walked a few steps in advance 
of us, holding Clementine by the hand, the latter skipping 
along, laughing, chattering, and now and then running 
back to her mother. * How happy I am !’ said Edwige 
softly, to me, pointing alternately to that lovely child and 
her son Elzear, w r hose slight and graceful figure was seen 
in the distance on the narrow path, and higher up to the 
plain, which stood in bold relief against the bright haze 
of the horizon, and where she expected soon to see M. de 
Varni. For my part, I had not the strength to answer her, 
and there were moments when I felt myself stagger like a 
drunken man. 

“ We walked thus for about a quarter of an hour, Julie 
and Clementine always the same distance before us. Clem- 
entine, seeing on the edge of the path a sweet-briar still 
covered with its roses, and some bunches of gentian as 
fresh as sapphires, said that she wished to make a pretty 
bouquet for her father. Thereupon she began to plunder, 
gathering right and left, and when a stem was too far from 
her hand begged Julie to come to her aid, and Julie, 
strong and fearless, leaned over that frightful precipice to 
reach the flowers Clementine pointed out. ‘Take care/ 
Madame Edwige said to her two or three times; ‘Ste- 
phanie, if your foot should slip — Great God ! misfortunes 
come so quickly.’ I watched Julie whilst she spoke. A 
deep color tinged her cheeks, her eyes glittered feverishly. 


REMINISCENCES. 


209 


“ The minutes rolled away ; my heart beat fast, a prey 
to mortal anxiety ; drops of cold perspiration stood on my 
forehead. Julie and Clementine, still busy picking flowers 
and making their bouquet larger, were left an instant be- 
hind us ; in that very instant — Claude, have I strength 
to finish ? 

“We were within ten minutes’ walk of the Pic-des- 
Chevres ; we could distinguish perfectly the groups of trees 
scattered among the gray peaks. Elzear had long since 
disappeared behind one of these thickets. He was running 
in the direction of the hamlet of Roque-Mille to meet M. 
de Varni. 

“ From the height where we were we could see, at a great 
distance below us, the Trou-du-Renard, which in this place 
had the dark and fearful proportions of one of the preci- 
pices so common in mountainous countries, where the eye, 
drawn by the mysterious fascination of vertigo, fancies 
strange, fantastic forms moving in the shadows, in the midst 
of the bushes, pools of stagnant water, and masses of rock 
sundered from their base. 

“ Suddenly Madame Edwige, who had not quitted her 
hold of my arm, uttered a cry of joy. At the extremity 
of the path, near the Pic-des-Ch&vres, two men were 
coming toward us, waving their handkerchiefs. We could 
already recognize the tall figure of M. de Varni and the 
elegant bearing of his son. 

“ ‘ It is indeed he ! it is my husband !’ said Madame Ed- 
wige. ‘ Elzear has met him, and they are returning together.’ 

“ But scarcely had she uttered these words before another 
cry, a scream of distress and horror, sounded behind us. 
We turned, trembling. . . . Oh, Claude, what a spectacle 
met our eyes! 

“ Clementine, doubtless wishing to gather a last rose or 
a last sprig of gentian, had gone too near the edge of the 
18 * 0 


210 


CLOTILDE. 


path. Had the poor child lost her balance ? Had a hand 
too obedient to your commands pushed her from behind? 
We shall never know. All that we saw was the unfortu- 
nate little one, that sweet, lovely creature five years old, 
who had been always surrounded with so much tenderness 
and affection, slipping down the declivity, on which her 
little hands vainly tried to clutch, then, as the descent 
became more steep, rolling with frightful swiftness. All 
this, you must know, passed with the rapidity of lightning. 
Madame Edwige had not had time to feel the blood freezing 
in her veins before her child, bruised, cut, torn to pieces, by 
the rapidity of the fall and the sharp corners of the rocks, 
offered to our gaze but a shapeless white mass, borne toward 
the ravine like a snow-flake swept onward by the wind. 
This was but the first scene of this frightful drama. Julie, 
mad with grief — remorse, perhaps — had leaned over the 
precipice, stretching her arm toward Clementine, who w 7 as 
already beyond her reach. Bewilderment and vertigo were 
painted on her brow ; her eyes fixed on the body of that 
child, whose groans could no longer be heard, her mind and 
heart seemed borne along with the tVhite speck gradually 
disappearing in the gulf below. Then, when Clementine 
w 7 as lost to sight, she leaped over to rejoin the child she 
could neither spare nor allow to die alone. Yes, Claude, 
Julie, your wife, your beloved companion, the mother of 
Jerome — I saw her ten steps from me without the power 
to keep her — I saw her follow to the abyss and to death the 
victim for whom she had vainly besought your mercy. 
Frightful sight ! which will be eternally present to my 
mind. All feeling of joy will henceforth be impossible to 
me. In spite of the force with which Julie sprung, she was 
stopped for a moment by a cluster of wild roses a few steps 
below the path. She could still have saved herself. I ran 
to her. Strong and active as she was, it would have been 


REMINISCENCES. 


211 


easy for her to cling to this obstacle, to make the effort 
required to ascend the declivity, and to catch hold of me. 
‘No, no,’ she said to me, ‘you know I must die. Tell 
Claude that I still love him.’ An instant afterward she 
disappeared in the ravine. 

“ I was so overwhelmed by this double catastrophe that 
I no longer thought of Edwige. On turning back, I saw 
her seated on a rock. M. de Varni and Elzear were but 
five minutes’ walk from us. They ran forward joyfully, 
having seen nothing, knowing nothing, for from the point 
where they were the Trou-du-Renard could not be seen. I 
approached Edwige, I seized her hand. It was cold as 
marble. I spoke to her. She made no answer, and I was 
the more alarmed that she did not shed a single tear. Her 
eyes were dry and glassy. ‘ Madame,’ I said to her, ‘ live, 
revive ! A son and husband are left you. They are here, 
they love you. We will mourn together the angel we have 
just lost, who now prays for us in heaven. . . . ’ The 
same silence. 

“M. de Varni and Elzear were now but a few steps from 
us, and seeing us alone, in distress, our faces of a deathlike 
pallor, they became fearfully alarmed. 

“ ‘ Clementine ! where is Clementine ?’ exclaimed M. de 
Varni. 

“ Edwige pointed to the ravine by a gesture. Then her 
hands stiffened, all expression faded from her open eyes, 
she sank back. M. de Varni and Elzear caught her in 
their arms. They held only a corpse. 

“ Thus Edwige died a few moments after Clementine and 
Julie. Your pitiless hatred has already had three victims : 
are you satisfied ? 

“ It was not till some hours later, when the viscount was 
in a state to hear me, that I was able to relate to him what 
had passed. 


212 


CLOTILDE. 


“You can judge how sad must have been our refurn 
to the castle of Maleraygues, which a few hours before 
had been the seat of so much happiness and hope. M. 
de Varni’s farmers brought home the body of Madame 
Edwige. Then by the aid of poles and cords they de- 
scended into the Trou-du-Renard, whence they brought the 
mutilated and unrecognizable remains of Clementine and 
Julie. It was I who presided at the funeral of these three 
amiable beings, all struck by the same blow. The cure of 
Roque-Mille read the ceremony without pomp or ostentation 
to the people of the village and neighboring farms. To 
each of these poor people Edwige had been an angel of 
charity, mercy and kindness ; Clementine, known all over 
the country for her loveliness, was the light and joy of 
these rustic hearts; Julie had had time to make herself 
beloved as a worthy sister of Edwige, as a second mother 
of Clementine. 

“All wept; the old cur6 attempted to speak, but sobs 
smothered his voice, and he could gain only strength 
enough’ to repeat the sublime prayers of the Church, the 
assurance of immortal hopes uttered from the bosom of 
death. After the ceremony I returned to the viscount. 
Grief has subdued him ; he is no longer the nobleman 
whom we knew, so haughty and so arrogant ; he is a man 
aged in a day, and bowed under the hand of God. As for 
Elzear, his grief is heartrending ; but he is only sixteen, 
and at that age he will receive comfort. 

“ Adieu, Claude ; it seems to me that our correspondence 
ought to end here, at least for some time. What can we 
have further, you to command, I to learn ? Shall we ever 
meet again in this world? No ; it is best we should never- 
more see each other.” 

Such was the mournful history which Claude and Domi- 


REMINISCENCES. 


213 


nique unfolded in their long and melancholy interview. 
Seven years had passed since the catastrophe at Maleray- 
gues. After that awful fifteenth of September the castle 
of Maleraygues had become odious to the Viscount de 
Varni. He travelled for several years with Elzear, whose 
amiable character was from that time his only consolation. 
M. de Varni had passed with distinction through the first 
campaigns of the war in America ; he had there become 
acquainted with some of the most celebrated men of that 
period, and when, on returning from his travels, he stopped 
in Paris to present Elzear to Louis XVI. and the queen, 
the reception he met with was such as to flatter his pride, 
but the misfortunes which had broken that proud heart had 
left him only the power of suffering. Grief, in guilty souls, 
is much more terrible, since it retains simply its gloomy, 
despairing, lonely aspect. It is lacking in that humane, 
affectionate, softened feeling which draws the mourner to 
the great family of those who mourn, and absorbs, so to 
speak, the individual affection into that tearful community 
whose burdens are lightened by sharing them, and to whom 
the God who smites is also the God who consoles. After 
M. de Varni’s early sufferings during the first years of his 
marriage, an instinctive superstition had led his mind 
toward the miseries and crimes of his youth and repre- 
sented Edwige as the avenger of Gaston and Clotilde. 
When at the same moment he had been robbed of his wife 
and daughter, this idea returned to him with greater 
strength : he thought he could trace the finger of God in 
the events which took place on the pathway to Maleray- 
gues ; his remorse was reawakened, and, to render his suf- 
ferings more acute, was mingled with them. There was 
something sullen and misanthropic in this sadness, which 
awakened fear rather than pity ; society wearied while soli- 
tude frightened him. His son was even at times a subject 


214 


CLOTILDE. 


of alarm to him ; he asked himself if this amiable and 
brilliant young man, the last hope of his lonely old age, 
would escape the fatality which seemed to rest on all whom 
he loved. It is easily understood that Clotilde was but too 
well obeyed ; nothing was wanting to the severity of the 
executioner. 

At length, after five years’ absence, the viscount, weary 
of the world, tired of travelling, disgusted with Paris and 
the court, whose tumult and pomp no longer diverted his 
mind, had returned to Avignon, and had shortly after mar- 
ried his son to a young person belonging to one of the 
richest and most aristocratic families in the country, Made- 
moiselle Adrienne de Flassan. This union seemed to 
promise happiness, and at the time when I reopen my me- 
moirs, Adrienne, having reached the period of her confine- 
ment, renewed in the heart of her father-in-law the ambition 
and aspirations long since smothered by grief. 

Dominique informed Claude of these various circum- 
stances ; he told him also of the marriage of Agricol and 
Adeline, of their mutual affection, and the happiness which 
this increase of family promised to his old age. 

In return, Claude related to him how he had passed the 
seven years which had rolled away since the drama of 
Maleraygues. On hearing of the death of J ulie, the grief 
he felt, far from disarming his hatred for the viscount, had 
rendered it still deeper. Occupying himself solely with 
the education of Jerome, as the child grew he strengthened 
him in this hatred in each one of his lessons ; he enter- 
tained his young imagination with the tragic scenes on the 
bank of the Rhone, of the pavilion of Mignard,* the ten 
months passed by him at the galleys, and the death of 
Julie, which he represented to his son as a consequence 
of the crimes of M. de Yarni. Jerome, too young at the 
time his mother left him to retain any recollection of her, 


REMINISCENCES. 


215 


had felt some years later the strange, sad sentiment, the 
retrospective affection for the dead, felt by orphans for 
parents whom they have never known. This feeling, to 
which Jerome’s recollections could give no form, was con- 
fused in his mind with the image of the viscount, whom 
he hated with all the intensity of the love he could not now 
lavish on Julie. Raised in the country, in the liberty of a 
half-savage life, continually led by Claude toward the ter- 
rible past, w r hich seemed in his eyes the perspective of a 
history pictured on his memory, made prematurely old by 
such conversation and this strange education, the child 
became what his father desired, what the dying Clotilde 
had dreamed of. His hatred of M. de Varni was like 
letters cut on the bark of young trees, which grows with 
them. 

Whilst Dominique and Claude were exchanging these 
confidences the evening was waning. The distant sound 
of music, laughter and dancing which reached their ears 
w T as becoming gradually fainter. Some minutes later there 
was a gentle knock at the door of Dominique Ermel’s 
study. It was Agricol and Adeline, who, regretting his 
long absence, had come to ask his blessing before retiring 
to their room. Dominique rose, and laying his hands on 
the heads of the young bride and groom, whose hearts 
palpitated with rapturous emotion, 

“ My God !” said he, “ bless them ! This son whom 
you have granted me in your inexhaustible goodness has 
never caused me one moment of grief ; this daughter whom 
I adopt, and who becomes my daughter, is pure as one of 
your angels. Bless them ; grant them that peace of mind, 
that real happiness, which is so often lacking in this world 
to those whom we imagine happy. My God ! send down 
upon this house the blessings promised to those who 
love. Turn from them the trials reserved for those who 


216 


CLOTILDE. 


hate; and under this humble roof may they learn only 
to pray, to do good and to forgive !” 

The notary could scarcely restrain his agitation while 
uttering these words. Claude was there, and the know- 
ledge of his presence sufficed to mingle a terrible thought 
in Dominique’s. heart with these words of benediction and 
peace. 

Agricol and Adeline arose : a last tear, a tear of love, 
innocence, emotion and joy, shone in the eyes of the young 
woman. Agricol carried the trembling hand of his father 
to his lips, and the happy couple departed. 

At this moment a hasty step sounded on the stairs ; a 
servant in full livery entered the study; he held in his 
hand a piece of paper, on which a few words had been 
hastily written. Dominique cast his eyes over them and 
said : “ Madame Adrienne de Yarni has just given birth 
to a son.” At the same time he heard Claude’s voice 
whispering in his ear, “Now our task must be resumed, 
and I count upon you to begin it again.” 


III. 


BETWEEN THE ACTS. 

A SHORT time after the interview between Dominique 
Ermel and himself, Claude was installed at the Vis- 
count de Varni’s as steward, at the recommendation of M. 
Ermel. It would have been impossible for the viscount to 
have recognized Claude Rioux after the lapse of thirty years 
of change, trial and agitation. How could he have sup- 
posed that the mere uncultured fisher of the Rhone had 
been transformed by a complete change of position and 
existence into this stranger, clothed in black, speaking with 
a slight Italian accent, which he had acquired during his 
sojourn at Baveno, and whose gray hair entirely altered 
the character of his swarthy and sunburnt face? M. de 
Varni, moreover, was put completely off his guard when 
Dominique presented Claude as a relative of the banker 
Ciliano, with whom the house of Margerin had long had 
dealings. Dominique added that his protege, whom he 
called Darnioli, had been ruined by the knavery of a 
friend to whom he had given almost his entire fortune and 
overwhelmed by the death of a wife whom he adored, and 
now found himself forced to leave his own country to turn 
his intelligence and probity to account in the service of 
some large estate. Dominique vouched for his friend as for 
himself, and M. de Varni did not hesitate to accept his 
offer. At the period to which these memoirs have brought 
us, happiness and peace had once more returned to this 
house. The viscount and his son, whom we again found 
19 217 


218 


CLOTILDE. 


in Avignon in our last chapter, had returned there on 
account of the expectations of Madame Adrienne de Varni, 
and it was owing to this circumstance that they had been 
enabled to be present at the marriage of Agricol and Ade- 
line. A short time after Adrienne’s recovery and the bap- 
tism of her child, who was named Raymon, the whole 
family hastened to return to the country, to a charming 
little place which Adrienne had brought to her husband as 
part of her dowry. This rustic habitation, which was less 
like a castle than a cool, pleasant cottage, was called 
Tavelay ; it was situated in that part of Languedoc which 
now forms the boundary of Uzes. 

The Viscount de Varni had there claimed the hospitality 
of his son and daughter-in-law, and in spite of his deep 
sadness he seemed happy with them. His troubles had 
rendered his house in Avignon and -his castle of Maleray- 
gues equally odious to him. He soon had an added motive 
for remaining at Tavelay in the strictest retirement. The 
revolution, which was elsewhere only threatening, had as 
early as 1788 assumed menacing proportions in the Comtat 
Venaissin. There it had a double element, a double cha- 
racter, for this struggle of new principles against the old 
rule, new ideas against the old world, there took as its pass- 
port and watchword the peremptory sentence, “ Comtat a 
la France.” As is always the case, projects of destruction, 
change, spoliation and murder were hidden under one of the 
questions calculated to alter generous minds. Now, the 
peculiar position of M. de Varni did not permit him to 
mingle in the strife. By his birth, his antecedents, his 
family ties, he was bound to support the papal authority. 
But ten years previous, not foreseeing the approaching 
struggle, proud of the marks of favor with which he had 
been loaded at Versailles, glad to enter into the service of 
France and to take part in the war in America under the 


BETWEEN THE ACTS. 


219 


Marquis de Bouille, he had asked and obtained letters of 
naturalization. Later, when, after the frightful catastrophe 
at Maleraygues, he had sought to divert his mind by taking 
his son Elzear to Paris, the welcome he had received from 
the young king, Louis XVI., and his queen, Marie Antoi- 
nette, had added to his gratitude and devotion. He could 
not then consistently fight for the papal authority, from 
which he had become alienated, and on the other hand, 
he would have blushed to be seen in the opposite party, 
whose destructive and criminal character was already be- 
trayed by its horrible excesses. He therefore resigned him- 
self to temporary inaction, beseeching Providence to point 
to him a place in the impending struggle where he could 
seek death whilst fulfilling a duty. 

This sentiment of affection for France and the king 
roused more enthusiasm in the pure young heart of Elzear 
than in the more calm, mature mind of the viscount. 
Although scarcely sixteen years old when a tragic and 
sudden death had ended the lives of his mother and sister 
Clementine before his eyes, Elzear had felt deeply this 
terrible blow. But violent grief at that age does not for 
ever crush the mind : it prepares it for greater and more 
noble emotion, and ripens it for trials and heroic devotion. 
When Elzear, two years after, melancholy and charming, 
and with all the ardor of youth, found himself transported 
to Trianon and Versailles, the king’s virtues and the en- 
chanting graces of the queen had made one of those 
solemn, ineffaceable impressions on his mind which mark 
an epoch in a life and decide a destiny. Handsome, tal- 
ented, amiable, related to several families belonging to 
w r hat was then called the court nobility, Elzear had met 
with successes in, that exclusive society over which the 
queen presided, and which preceded the storms that fol- 
lowed by several years of elegant pleasures and exquisite 


220 


CLOTILDE. 


recreations. From that time he had devoted himself with 
deep gratitude and respectful and passionate affection to 
that world which had turned on him one of its latest 
smiles, to the king, of whom each day hid or revealed some 
new favor, and still more particularly to the queen, who 
appeared to him the ideal of beauty, grandeur and grace, 
and for them he was willing to make any sacrifice or brave 
any danger. 

It was with these ideas still fresh in his mind that 
Elzear de Varni returned to Provence and married Ad- 
rienne de Flassan. By a fortunate and but too rare coin- 
cidence, he found in the heart of his young wife a faithful 
echo of his dearest and most secret thoughts. The daugh- 
ter of an officer of the French guards who had been 
wounded at Fontenoy, and of a mother born in that noble, 
sublime Vendee which was so soon to pay to legitimate 
royalty its debt of heroism and blood, Adrienne had been 
surrounded by every influence calculated to impress upon 
her mind in all its poetical idealism that attachment to 
the king which was once but another form of devotion 
to her country. When she found the same sentiment in 
the heart of Elzear, she felt happy and proud to share it, 
and to make of it, so to speak, the crowning joy of their 
mutual affection. This devotion to the royal cause, to 
the names of Louis XYI. and Marie Antoinette, seemed 
to the young couple like sweet talismans, like those em- 
blematic bouquets which lovers use as interpreters, symbols 
and accessories. If it was allowable to compare worldly 
to sacred things, I should say that as there exist pious 
unions, in which the joys of love are never divested of 
the grave, stern character religion gives them, so the union 
of Elzear and Adrienne seemed contracted under the 
auspices of those royalist sentiments which were reflected 
in their chaste raptures. 


BETWEEN THE ACTS. 


221 


Such was the situation of the family De Varni during 
the last few years which preceded the revolution. Claude, 
under the assumed name of Darnioli, occupied a little 
room on the second floor of the house, and seemed entirely 
absorbed by the management of the viscount’s fortune. 

The peace of the little towns and villages which sur- 
round Tavelay had not yet been disturbed : news travelled 
there slowly. Dominique Ermel, who came to visit the 
viscount and his son whenever his business or the troubles 
in Avignon gave -him leisure, usually gave them an ac- 
count of what was passing without, and probably sought 
at the same time to fathom the intentions and the projects 
of Claude, whose inaction astonished without reassuring him. 

On the 10th of June, 1791, a beautiful morning, the 
brightness and calm of which contrasted with the tem- 
pests which were already exciting the passions, miseries 
and ambitions of men throughout the country, Dominique 
arrived at Tavelay. As he was too early to see the owner 
of the house, he repaired to Claude’s little room. He 
found him making calculations, consulting registers, look- 
ing over papers and summing up accounts, as the most 
careful, economical, scrupulously trained steward would 
have done. The notary seated himself near the little table 
at which his old friend was writing, and asked him, by way 
.of opening the conversation, 

“ How is Jerome ?” 

“ Well. He is now a man. In two months I will take 
him from the college of Bagnols, where he then will have 
finished his studies.” * 

“ And your accounts, my dear Darnioli, how do they 
go?” 

“ Oh, pretty well,” answered Claude, “all things con- 
sidered. M. de Yarni’s fortune is less entangled than 
might have been feared. It is true that I take a great deal 


222 


CLOTILDE. 


of trouble. Always up before day, I do not lose the value 
of a cipher or a fraction. Ah I” continued he, ironically, 
“I am a model steward.” 

Dominique looked at Claude with an expression of sur- 
prise. The latter continued, in a mocking tone, 

“ My dear friend, are you so thoroughly a notary as to 
imagine that when I asked you to get me the position of 
steward in his house it was simply and foolishly to ruin the 
viscount ?” 

“ I feared it. . . . It seemed. ... I 'thought. ...” 

“Listen to me, Dominique,” interrupted Claude, with a 
gravity as frightful as his irony. “ The day when I escaped 
from the galleys at Toulon I appeared suddenly before Clo- 
tilde and Julie. Clotilde told me that she would save me, 
but she said it in such a manner that I instantly understood 
that a compact of vengeance was to be made between us. I 
proposed to kill the viscount. Do you know how she 
answered me ?” 

“ I am listening,” replied the notary, shuddering. 

“ She told me that my hatred must be very lenient to be 
satisfied with so little; that the simple death of M. de 
Varni was nothing in comparison to the vengeance of 
which she had dreamed, and the execution of which she 
afterward confided to us.” 

“Well?” 

“ Well, that scene, eternally graven upon my mind, has 
been the motive of all that I have done in reference to that 
abhorred viscount. Guided by the spirit of Clotilde, I 
understood that in every place and at every time I had 
within my reach two modes of revenge — one, simple, fool- 
ish, self-evident, so to speak, and consequently unworthy of 
Clotilde and myself; the other, deep, intense, using less 
direct means, but attaining an end a thousand times 
greater. Do you begin to understand ?” 


BETWEEN THE ACTS. 


223 


“ Yes,” murmured Dominique. 

“ What would have been, I ask you — what would have 
been the loss of a few hundred thousand pounds to a man 
like M. de Yarni, who during the sixty-seven years of his 
existence has passed through such terrible alternations of 
joy, grief, crime, splendor, hope and despair ? What would 
even complete ruin be to two beings like Adrienne and El- 
zear, who have no feeling, no thought, beyond their love, 
save for the misfortunes and dangers of the king of 
France, and who would joyfully give their last obole for a 
smile from Louis XVI., a glance from Marie Antoinette? 
A knavish steward, who ruined his master, why this would 
be known everywhere ; it is commonplace in the highest 
degree,” said Claude, with a smile which froze Dominique 
with fear. 

At this moment the door of the room opened, and M. de 
Yarni entered. He no longer seemed the same man. His 
figure, ordinarily bowed by age and grief, was now upright. 
He would have been thought but fifty years of age, there 
was such fire in his eye, so much energy in his carriage. 
He held in his hand a letter, which he showed to Domi- 
nique and Claude, saying, with the greatest exultation, 

“ My friends, I have just received the greatest honor 
that has ever been accorded to my family.” 

The notary and the steward had risen. They listened 
respectfully, w r hile M. de Yarni continued. 

“ Yes,” resumed he, seeking to conquer his emotion, 
“ here is the letter which has been sent to me. Pay atten- 
tion, for I destine a place by my side for you.” 

And he read to them the following letter, which was 
addressed to him by the Marquis de Bouille :* 

* Need we say that this letter is entirely imaginary ? M. de Bonilla, 
who had taken the precaution of announcing a ball for the very day 
on which the king was to pass Varennes, was too wise, too prudent, 


224 


CLO TILDE. 


“Metz, June 2, 1791. 

“I have not forgotten you, Monsieur le Viscount, and 
I am about to give you a proof of my remembrance by 
revealing to you a secret and asking your assistance in a 
plan on which the safety of the royal family, and probably 
the future of France, depends. You have no doubt already 
learned from the accounts you receive from Paris that the 
king is surrounded by enemies, and forcibly detained at 
the Tuileries, where he was captured by a mob and robbed 
of all his power. He now considers himself a prisoner, 
and hopes, by freeing himself from this odious situation, to 
save his dignity, and perhaps his life. For several months 
active but secret measures have been taken to liberate him 
from this captivity, and to assist him in escape and flight. 

“ M. de F , colonel of the Royal-Suedois, has under- 

taken to plan the escape from Paris, and I am charged to 
guard the dangerous journey from Chalons to Montmedy. I 
now give you only those details which are strictly necessary. 
The king will leave Paris on the night of the 20th or 21st 
of June, with a passport which has been obtained with the 
assistance of the Baroness de Korff, in a carriage built for 
the purpose. I trust God will protect this nocturnal ride 
from the Tuileries, but I tremble ; once on the open road, 
I think that the dangers will be less. It is necessary that 
you should be informed of my principal arrangements. 
The first carriage will contain the king, the queen, Ma- 
dame Elizabeth, M. le Dauphin, Madame la Dauphine, and 
Madame de Tourzel. Two ladies-in- waiting will follow in 

to send a letter containing these details over two hundred leagues 
by mail. The author has ventured to publish so unlikely a thing 
solely that he might use it as an introduction to the dramatic events 
of Varennes, in which he has endeavored to remain faithful to 
history, although he has not exactly followed the historians of that 
time. 


BETWEEN THE ACTS. 


225 


a lighter carriage. By my calculations, these two carriages 
ought to reach Pont-du-Somme-Vesle about 11 o’clock on 
the morning of the 21st. The start which the royal fugi- 
tives will have, travelling part of the night at small risk 
of being recognized, will suffice to render any display of 
troops useless, and consequently dangerous, up to this point. 
But from Pont-du-Somme-Vesle to Yarennes troops sta- 
tioned as skilfully as possible will constantly protect the 
royal carriages. Now, Monsieur le Viscount, here is the 
part which concerns you : besides these troops, who, with 
scarcely an exception, are ignorant to what end they have 
received the order to execute these movements, and will 
merely be looked upon by the populace as escorting an 
express of money to the frontier, I require devoted, reliable 
men of undoubted courage to be stationed at the principal 
points which the king will pass, and to follow him from 
relay to relay till he reaches his destination. It has been 

agreed upon that MM. de N and de V , who will 

accompany the carriages, will stop and remain at Chalons. 
These gentlemen may be watched, a description of them 
may be sent from Paris; their horses, which will have 
gallopped since midnight, will be too tired to continue the 
journey. In short, they have been in garrison in Chalons, 
and might be recognized. They will then go no farther, 
and it is necessary that at the relay of the Pont-du-Somme- 
Vesle two gentlemen should replace them and follow the 
carriages as far as Sainte-Menehould. 

“There I shall again require two reliable men, for 
dangers, if there are any, will necessarily increase as w 7 e 
draw near the end of the journey. One o'f these two men 
will ride behind the king’s carriage, the other behind the 
carriage containing the ladies Brunier and Neuville, the 
ladies-in-waiting. They must be ready to defend the royal 
family at the risk of their lives, and should any obstacle 

P 


226 


CLOTILDE. 


suddenly arise, either at Sainte-Menehould or at Varennes, 
to throw themselves on two of the horses in the escort, and 
to come to me with the greatest expedition at Stenay, 
where I will be with the regiment, Royal- Allemand, pre- 
pared to start at the first signal. I look to you to supply the 
four men I require, who must think and act as one man. 
If a f6te at Versailles was talked of, I should have no 
trouble in finding what I want, but men who know how to 
unite devotion to shrewdness, presence of mind to bravery, 
are more rare, and therefore I have fixed upon you, for I 
can never forget the courage and cool contempt for danger 
-which I saw you display at the storming of Saint-Christo- 
pher, and the taking of Montserrat, where you saved my 
life. 

“ But even had I hesitated my choice would have been 
determined by a more august and powerful will than my 
own. The queen desired that if in this plan there was a 
post of danger and honor in the service of the king to dis- 
pose of, that position might be given to you — to you and 
your estimable son. Such a preference is a command, and 
you would be right did you never forgive me if I left you 
ignorant of so precious a distinction. 

“ It is only necessary, monsieur, that you should choose 
comrades of honor and bravery, on whom you can depend 
as on yourself ; you must confide to them this important 
secret, and take them with you on this expedition. 

“You will all four depart — you, your son and the two 
persons whom you will choose — as soon as you have re- 
ceived this letter and made the necessary preparations. 
You must start on horseback, and I do not need to tell 
you to mount your best horses. You can travel together 
as far as Troyes ; there you will find, in the Rue Planche- 
Porte, a rag-shop, on which you will see the single word, 
Auguste. You must enter and say these two words, Espoir , 


BETWEEN THE ACTS. 


227 


Montmedy. / The costumes you are to wear will then be 
given you, and you must separate. Two of you must go 
to Pont-du-Somme-Vesle to wait; the two others will wait 
at Sainte-Menehould. You must be there on the evening 
of the 20th, so that your horses may rest and you can 
under no circumstances be taken unawares. 

“As I have explained, the two first will follow the 
carriages on horseback from Pont-du -Somme- Yesle to 
Sainte-Menehould, and from there to Varennes all four 
will follow, two mounted, two behind the carriages. 

“ Such, monsieur, is the immense service I require. I 
do not add a caution: the plan I confide to you contains 
it ; to write another word would be to doubt you, and if I 
doubted you, I would not write at all. If we succeed in 
our enterprise, God and the king will reward us; if we 
perish — death during a revolution is to be dreaded only 
by those who cannot meet it in the path of duty. 

“ Farewell, then, and, I trust, for a short time. Cour- 
age ! Esperance and Montmedy ! 

“Marquis de Bouille.” 

M. de Yarni was silent a moment after having read this 
letter ; then he carried it to his lips with rapture. At the 
same time Claude said to him, '“ Monsieur le Yiscount, I 
thank you that you have thought of me ; I am ready to 
follow you.” 

“Ah, Darnioli, I expected no less of you. And you, 
Dominique ?” 

The notary was pale — not that he feared danger for him- 
self, but he shuddered with horror on seeing Claude 
master of this secret and engaged in this enterprise. 
Claude turned to him with an expression of triumph 
which to Dominique wore a terrible meaning. 

“Well ?” resumed the viscount, more earnestly. “ Do 


228 


CLOTILDE . 


you hesitate? Do you fear? You, in whom I have 
always found such integrity and so much feeling — can 
you refuse to share the happiest moment of my life ?” 

Dominique bowed his head and murmured, “I am at 
your command, monsieur ! Give me two minutes to write 
to my wife and son that I shall be absent for several days, 
and I, too, will be ready to follow you !” 

“Well, be it so,” exclaimed M. de Yarni. 

“And M. Elzear,” said the notary, striving to conceal 
his agitation — “ does he not grieve to part with his wife 
and child, perhaps to meet them no more?” 

“Elzear!” cried M. de Varni, with an indescribable ac- 
cent of joy and pride — “Elzear! Come and see him; he 
will answer for me.” 

They descended to the garden, where they found Elzear 
and Adrienne. It would be impossible for us to describe 
the feelings which were reflected on the features of the 
young people. In the face of the young viscount shone 
sincere joy, ennobled by the mo*st chivalrous, impassioned 
heroism. Adrienne’s betrayed a mixture of happiness, 
pride, anxiety and love which no words can express. 

The whole day was passed in preparations. It was 
agreed that they should depart at nine in the evening, so 
that the horses should be spared the heat of a summer’s 
day, and that they might traverse by night that part of 
the country where M. de Yarni and his companions would 
be most likely to be recognized. They examined the 
horses with scrupulous attention, and chose the four best. 
M. de Varni and his son took for their own use two Arabian 
mares, which they had imported at great expense, and 
which were incomparable for swiftness and safety. One 
was called Fatima, the other, Zulma. The saddles, bridles, 
stirrups and pistols were also objects of the most minute 
examination. It might have been supposed that on each 


BETWEEN THE ACTS. 


229 


detail of their outfit they placed a chance of salvation for 
those they were going to protect. From time to time 
Elzear turned to cover his little Raymon with kisses, or to 
press Adrienne to his heart. Neither of them shed a tear. 

Evening arrived. At nine o’clock the four horses were 
led to the entrance. The night was cool and tranquil, but 
no stars were out. The servants of the house, the greater 
part of them old domestics, held burning torches to light 
this farewell scene. Without knowing what was to be done, 
they felt that their masters were going to face danger. All 
had their heads uncovered, and their bald foreheads, seen 
by the glare of the torches, were of the color of leather or 
old parchment. Adrienne stood on the upper step of the 
entrance, holding Raymon in her arms and lifting him as 
high as her head. The clock struck nine. Elzear hastily 
touched the beloved faces with his lips, and was first in the 
saddle. The viscount kissed Adrienne’s hand, saying, in a 
tone of affectionate dignity, “My daughter, pray for us!” 
Then mounting Zulma with all the agility of a young man, 
he took his place beside his son. Claude and Dominique 
bestrode two fine Normans which had been chosen for 
them, and rode second in this little cavalcade. 

When all four were in their saddles, Elzear turned a last 
look on his wife and child. 

“ My dear Adrienne,” he murmured, “ you have nothing 
more to say to me ?” 

“ Vive le roi I” cried the young lady. 

“ Vive le roi !” exclaimed the gentlemen and the 
servants. 

“ Vive le roi !” echoed Raymon, in his sweet, angelic 
voice, clapping his little hands. 

A few minutes later the four men had departed, the door 
of Tavelay was closed, and Adrienne was in her room, on 
her knees before her God. 


IV. 


THE DRAMA. 

T HE four travellers reached Troyes without detention 
or adventure. The country which they traversed 
wore that appearance of dull anxiety and vague agitation 
which precedes great crises and revolutions. Arrived at 
Troyes, M. de Yarni and his companions turned toward 
the Rue Planche-Porte, according to the instructions of the 
Marquis de Bouille. This was, at that time, a narrow, 
winding street, half hidden by a vast pile of houses, and 
very skilfully chosen as a place of rendezvous little likely 
to excite suspicion or curiosity. Near the corner of the 
Rue de Lavandiers they perceived, on a shop of very 
humble appearance, in scarcely legible writing, the given 
name Auguste. The only person whom they found in the 
shop had his eyes concealed by large blue spectacles and 
his head buried in an enormous wig surmounted by a knit 
cap. It was hard to guess at either his age or his figure, 
under the brown blouse which entirely covered him, and 
which appeared to be a sample of the rags in his shop. 
He turned to the new-comers eyes whose brightness the 
blue glass of the barnacles could not altogether hide, 
saying, brusquely, 

“ Who are you ? What do you want ?” 

“ Espoir, MontmSdy” replied M. de Varni, in a low tone. 
Without uttering another word, the rag-dealer led them 
into the back shop. He handed M. de Yarni and Elzear 
two coats exactly alike, of a yellow material, turned back 
with blue, cut in the style of a hunting- vest, and finished 
230 


THE DRAMA. 


231 


witli metal buttons. Pantaloons of buckskin, and high 
boots, completed this costume, which was, except in some 
few details, that of the couriers of the Prince de Conti. 
The viscount and Elzear put on these two coats, and the 
silent rag-dealer handed Dominique and Claude peasants’ 
dresses of a dark color, which might belong to servants or 
valets de chambres in a commoner’s house. Large equerries’ 
travelling-boots were to be worn over the pantaloons and 
black silk stockings, or left off at pleasure by the two men, 
according as they had to make the journey on horseback or 
mounted behind the carriages. 

The disguise of our travellers was accomplished in the 
same silence, and a few minutes later M. de Varni, Elzear, 
Dominique and Claude left this singular shop. 

They separated within a few leagues of Troyes. The % 
viscount and his son took the road to Chalons-sur-Marne, 
and Dominique and Claude turned their horses toward 
Sainte-Menehould, where we will follow them. 

Their ride was silent and rapid. Certainly any one who 
had met on the road those two men of the same age, 
clothed in the same style, and trotting side by side on 
horses of the same kind similarly equipped, could never 
have imagined the differences which separated them or 
dreamed of the violent tempests then raging in their 
hearts. 

When they were but a short distance from. Sainte-Mene- 
hould, Dominique Ermel placed himself across the road, 
and seizing Claude’s horse by the bridle, “ Before we enter’ 
the town, two words,” said he to his companion. 

“Four, if you will,” replied Claude, coldly. 

“ Do you think I will let you do it?” 

“ Do what ?” 

“ Betray those you are bound to defend ; execute this 
accursed and criminal vengeance, injure M. de Varni and 


232 


CLOTILDE. 


his son, not only in their existence, their happiness, their 
family, but by betraying and denouncing these royal per- 
sonages whose safety they are sworn to ensure. This is 
what you intend, is it not?” 

Claude looked at him fixedly, shrugged his shoulders 
almost imperceptibly, and said with the same indifference : 

“ Well, after?” 

“ After, I must tell you that our complicity ceases ; 
there is now no question of a woman to avenge, a man to 
punish : there is a crown to save or betray, a noble work to 
be done ; the destinies of a people cannot be overthrown 
for the satisfaction of our hatred. No, no, Claude, this is 
too great a risk for us, and I regard myself for the time as 
released from my oath — ” 

“ Who speaks of your oath ? I ask you nothing ; I will 
act alone.” 

“Yes, if I will let you act,” resolutely resumed Domi- 
nique, drawing a pistol from under his vest; “but hear me, 
Claude : this is the 20th of June ; it is six o’clock in the 
evening ; we are about to enter a city through which the 
king will pass to-morrow morning. Till then we have but 
to wait and be silent. Well, till that time I will follow 
you like your shadow, and if you say one word, if you 
make a gesture, if you utter a sound, which can betray us, 
I will blow out your brains!” 

“ Very well !” answered Claude, in the same ironical 
manner, which lent his face a sinister expression ; “from 
you at least we know what to expect.” 

. A quarter of an hour later they .entered Sainte-Mene- 
hould. 

They lodged in a modest inn, and following their instruc- 
tions, represented themselves as servants of the Baronne 
Korff* who had preceded her to prepare the relays for their 
mistress. When they had put their horses in the stable 


THE DRAMA . 


233 


and seen that they lacked nothing, Dominique, for the 
sake of greater precaution, told the' innkeeper that his 
companion and himself would occupy the same room, in 
order to save expense. Then he took Claude’s arm, very 
sure that as yet he had had no chance to exchange a word 
with any one, and determined not to leave him for a 
minute. 

It was seven o’clock, and a beautiful evening ; the sun 
was just setting; Claude and Dominique walked over the 
town, profiting by the last hour of daylight to gain an 
exact idea of its localities; Claude was gloomy and taci- 
turn, but calm : nothing in his manner or appearance 
seemed to justify Dominique’s suspicions. 

It was twilight when they arrived in front of the post- 
office. Some little agitation was noticeable in the city, and 
some vague, contradictory rumors were circulating among 
the groups of people which w r ere scattered here and there ; 
a detachment of hussars, of the sixth regiment, had just 
entered by the Porte de Verdun, and the sight of their 
uniforms, added to the floating reports, made the people 
uneasy. The commander-in-chief of this detachment, re- 
quired by the municipality to make know T n the object of 
his mission, showed the orders, signed by the Marquis de 
Bouille, enjoining upon this detachment to precede a treasure 
destined for the troops on the frontier. 

Without entirely quelling the agitation, this explanation 
seemed to allay it. The groups gradually dispersed, and 
Dominique and Claude remained almost alone before the 
post-office. A man about twenty-eight or thirty was seated 
on a bench beside the door smoking. 

Night was falling, but we all know how twilight is pro- 
longed in the end of June; we can still see distinctly at 
several steps’ distance. 

Claude and Dominique continued their promenade on 


234 


CL 0 TILDE. 


the sidewalk in front of the post-office. Each time that 
they retraced their steps they came near the smoker, the 
light of whose pipe shone like a glow-worm in the midst 
of the deepening shadows. 

Dominique still kept his arm passed through Claude’s, 
feeling sure that no movements could escape him. 

But as he walked Claude had fixed his eyes on the 
smoker. At the first turn their eyes met; at the second, 
Claude, raising the hand which Dominique had left free, 
passed it perpendicularly on his face, then horizontally 
across his mouth ; the stranger replied by a similar sign : 
this was the freemasonry of the revolution. Claude asked 
no more. 

He allowed several minutes to pass, then quietly draw- 
ing a pipe from his pocket, he began to fill it slowly, in a 
preoccupied manner. He put it in his mouth, and then 
only seemed to perceive that he had no fire. At this mo- 
ment their walk brought them nearer the unknown smoker, 
who had not moved from his place, and the light of whose 
pipe shone more brightly as the darkness increased. 

After some little ceremony usual under the circumstances, 
Claude gently disengaged his arm from Dominique’s; he 
raised his hand to his hat, bowed to the smoker, and 
murmured some words which Dominique could not hear, 
but which his gesture, attitude and manner translated 
thus : 

“Will monsieur permit me to light my pipe?” The 
pipes were touched against each other, and these words 
were rapidly exchanged in a low tone : 

“ Your name?” 

“Drouet.” 

“You are a patriot?” 

“ Yes.” 

“You hate Louis XYI. and the Austrian?” 


THE DRAMA. 


235 


“Yes.” 

“ You have seen them ?” 

“No” 

“ What would you do for the man who would deliver 
them up to you ?” 

“ Anything.” 

“They will pass through here to-morrow morning. 
There will be two carriages — one large and the other 
small. There will be in the escort a young man of thirty, 
in the costume of a courier, blue and yellow, with light 
hair and a brown moustache. When the secret has been 
made public, you will say that it was he who revealed it.” 

“ I will say so.” 

“Now I thank you, and beg your pardon,” then said 
CJJaude aloud, rising with his pipe lit; “my devilish to- 
bacco was so damp that I have abused your good nature.” 

The stranger bowed politely. Dominique and Claude 
continued to walk a few minutes on the place, then re- 
turned to their lodgings. Dominique did not close his 
eyes ; Claude snored loudly till daylight. 

The next day was the 21st of June, 1791. The two men 
kept watch all morning near the post-office building, but 
their watch w T as vain ; the day rolled away, and nothing 
appeared. Toward eight o’clock, the hussars, whose pres- 
ence had thrown the city into such commotion the previous 
evening, left Sainte-Menehould to fall back to Pont-du- 
Somme-Vesle, according to the plan drawn by M. de 
Bouilffi. The uproar caused by this circumstance was 
just beginning to subside when, three hours later, a de- 
tachment of dragoons commanded by M. d’Andoins made 
its appearance. The sight of these new troops excited the 
populace to fresh anxiety and exasperation. As yet, this 
exasperation was not of an alarming character. Parleys 
more or less stormy took place between M. d’Andoins, who 


236 


CLOTILDE. 


made good his orders, and the municipal officers, who 
doubled their interrogatories and demanded the disarm- 
ing of the soldiers. Claude and Dominique waited on in 
ignorance of the discussions and movements passing in the 
city. As the hours rolled away, M. Ermel felt his heart 
heat so violently that at times he feared that he would 
drop dead before the king passed. In spite of his agita- 
tion he never for an instant lost sight of his terrible com- 
panion, whose calmness astonished him. The latter seemed 
resolved to remain quiet, a tool in the work in which they 
were both engaged, and Dominique’s fears were at length 
dispelled. He began to hope that Claude’s heart, barbar- 
ous as it was in its intense hatred, shrank with horror 
from the idea of betraying the royal family. 

At last, at seven in the evening, a large carriage, 
followed by a smaller one and escorted by two couriers 
wearing blue and yellow liveries, rolled through the street 
which led to the post-office. This carriage was of a pecu- 
liar shape, and so elegant as to attract attention. The 
dimensions of the baggage strapped on the imperial, the 
white velvet lining, the silk cords and tassels used so pro- 
fusely, the air of solidity and comfort evident in its most 
minute details, and the presence of two couriers in livery — 
one young, the other old, but both aristocratic in appear- 
ance — bespoke travellers of high distinction, and aggravated 
the suspicions of a populace already excited. M. d’An- 
doins, in order to calm the growing dissatisfaction, had been 
obliged to dismiss his dragoons. 

Thus it happened that when the principal traveller, who 
occupied a seat on the back of the large carriage, looked 
out of the door of the vehicle, as if in search of the troops 
which he had expected to see and had vainly looked for at 
Chalons, his eyes met only those of three men standing at 
different distances from the post-office building. The first 


THE DRAMA. 


237 


two were Claude and Dominique, the third was the unknown 
smoker who had exchanged such a hurried dialogue with 
Claude on the preceding evening. He was the postmaster 
of Sainte-Menehould. We have already learned that his 
name was Drouet. 

As the carriage stopped to change horses, and the 
traveller seated on the back seat cast that anxious glande 
around him, Drouet made a slight sign to Claude, accom- 
panying the sign with a mute interrogation. Claude 
replied by an imperceptible but affirmative gesture, wink- 
ing at the same time, to show Drouet the young man on 
horseback. Drouet answered in the same way. They 
understood each other. Whilst the horses were being 
changed Dominique and Claude mounted the seats behind. 
The change was quickly made, and in spite of the distrust 
of the people and the menaces which were circulating 
around the neighboring streets, the carriages soon drove 
off again, leaving behind them the tumult and whisperings 
which had more than once already oppressed the hearts of 
the travellers, but which from that time they ceased to 
dread. They felt as if nothing could now interfere with 
their safety. 

“Saved! we are saved!” they cried with one accord 
when the wheels were rolling over the open road bounded on 
either side by trees, harvest-fields, hills and the foggy hori- 
zon, over which the evening shades were stealing. . . . 

If my heart still shudders at the recollections, con- 
tinued the notary, after a short pause, judge, monsieur, 
of what must have been the feelings of M. de Varni, and 
especially of his son Elzear, during this journey, each 
minute of which was fraught with danger and death to the 
royal fugitives, when every heart was filled with the same 
thought, each eye spoke the same language, and each sus- 
picion, every new dread, called the same pallor to the brow 


238 


CLOTILDE. 


of masters and servants. The signs of agitation which had 
been shown in the neighborhood of Pont-du-Somme-Vesle 
and of- Sainte-Menehould, the absence of troops in the 
places which had been designated, had seemed to them bad 
omens. But when they had passed Sainte-Menehould, and 
the little escort was enlarged by Dominique and Claude 
mounted on the carriages, night had come, and the travellers 
breathed the balmy evening air, looked out on the silent, 
peaceful fields, and dreamed that before the dawn of 
another day they would have reached the termination of 
their dangerous journey, they felt as if relieved of a dread- 
ful load. A few kind words, expressions of gratitude, hope 
and devotion, were exchanged, in a low tone, between the 
carriages and the two gentlemen who rode near the doors. 
From time to time Elzear patted Fatima’s neck. A full- 
blooded Arabian mare, the excellent animal had gone on a 
brisk trot ever since leaving Chalons without one drop of 
sweat moistening her smooth, glossy skin, or a speck of 
foam soiling her parched mouth. The noble young man’s 
heart beat with a feeling which was new to him, pure as his 
devotion, great as his courage. He would have liked to 
concentrate on himself every peril hanging over these 
sacred heads. He would have been willing to die the 
instant the queen put her foot on the ground in safety, and 
would have expired in ecstasy, repaid by a smile. At 
eleven in the evening the royal carriage reached Varennes. 

Historians, eye-witnesses, even some of the actors in this 
sad drama, have made the topographical details belonging 
to this portion of our narrative familiar to every mind. It 
is known that Varennes is divided into the upper and lower 
town, separated by a narrow stream, and that the bridge 
which joins these two parts was surmounted by a feudal 
tower, built on a dark massive arch, under which the car- 
riages were obliged to pass. 


THE DRAMA. 


239 


It is also known that it was not usual to change horses 
at Yarennes : the fugitives expected to find there the horses 
of M. de Choiseul waiting for them in a designated spot, 
so as not to cause a moment’s detention. Unfortunately, the 
king thought that this improvised relay was to be found in 
the upper town near the dangerous passage of the bridge 
and the arch, while, on the contrary, they had been sta- 
tioned in the lower town, so that the horses, which had been 
brought from* Clermont, might thus be spared the descent, 
and the requisite halt for the change would thus only take 
place at the other extremity of the town, as they reached 
the open country, and need no longer fear public curiosity 
or excitement. 

This misunderstanding was a subject of great anxiety and 
terror to the travellers. All alighted to seek the horses, 
inquiring right and left, losing at every door precious min- 
utes — their latest minutes of liberty. Finally, weary of their 
vain efforts, they turned to the postilions who had guided 
them from Clermont,, and by means of money and promises 
induced them to drive farther. The postilions again sprang 
to their saddles, and rode in full trot through the steep street 
which led to the bridge. All was silent in that part of the 
town; the clock in the tower struck eleven; not a light 
shone in the windows, not a living creature could be seen 
in the streets, not a noise heard in the distance; every- 
where brooded the nocturnal quiet of small towns, over 
which night seems to fall like a leaden pall. Deceiving 
repose! the enemy was watching, the danger but a few 
steps distant. 

In fact, while the royal carriages were making the neces- 
sary change at Sainte-Menehould, Drouet, the postmaster, in 
whose mind Claude’s pantomime had left no room for doubt, 
had hastened to his stable, saddled, equipped and mounted 
his best horse ; then profiting by the advantage gained by 


240 


CLOTILDE. 


his knowledge of the country, he rode with the utmost speed 
over the road which goes direct from Sainte-Menehould to 
Yarennes, without passing Clermont, thus gaining nearly 
four leagues on the carriages he wished to overtake. Con- 
sequently, when the carriages reached the entrance to the 
upper town, Drouet had been in Varennes three quarters 
of an hour. He had had time to arouse some friends of 
his who were patriots. I use this title, which history will 
sooner or later correct, for we do not give the name of 
patriots to revolutionists, because they love their country 
only as hunters love game. 

Assisted by his friends, Drouet had placed a reversed 
car and some large beams under the arch of the tower, so 
as to close the passage. Crouching with them behind this 
car, he was waiting. 

The carriages entered the arch, and were dashed against 
the obstructions placed by Drouet and his companions ; the 
affrighted horses reared furiously. 

“Halt!” shouted a menacing voice at the same time. 

Elzear de Yarni instinctively advanced two steps, turning 
his pistol toward the place whence the voice issued, but in 
the disorder of this halt his horse had approached so near 
the door of the carriage that the king, reaching out his 
arm, lowered the pistol. 

“Remain quiet or you will betray us,” murmured he 
in Elzear’s ear. 

At the same time the concealed men came forward ; they 
surrounded the carriage, and commanded the travellers to 
alight. 

“ By what right do you give this order ?” demanded the 
king, in a steady voice. “ Why this violence? Why stop 
the passage of peaceful travellers?” 

“ Because these peaceful travellers are suspicious charac- 


THE DRAMA. 


241 


ters,” answered Drouet, ironically; “consequently, I com- 
mand you to follow me to the chief magistrate.” 

While he was speaking, one of his men, taking a torch, 
walked to the carriage and threw its full glare on all the 
pale faces leaning from the door. Elzear, whose eyes were 
fixed on the queen, saw her tremble with fear and rage. 

“ One word, madame,” said he, quickly, in a low tone ; 
“ say but one word, I will kill the chief of these wretched 
men ; the others will be frightened, and we can pass over 
their bodies.” Some words reached the ears of the king. 

“No,” said he, “not a drop of blood! I forbid it.” 
Elzear bowed. 

“Alight! Alight, all of you!” repeated Drouet. “It 
must be so : the safety of the country demands it. . . . If 
we are mistaken — if your passports are correct — all can 
be explained at the magistrate’s.” 

Drouet was too skilful to use a tone of violence or hatred 
calculated to exasperate the fugitives, and perhaps drive 
them to some extreme measure. His manners were adroit- 
ly calculated to rouse in their suffering hearts the alter- 
nations of hope and fear. He seemed urged rather by 
an excess of zeal and patriotic precaution than guided 
by any definite knowledge. The king and queen were 
deceived by it for a few minutes, and thought that by 
obeying the commands of their new persecutor they would 
silence his suspicions, deny their identity and finally 
escape from this fatal towm. 

They decided to alight from the carriages, ordered the 
ladies-in-waiting to follow them, and signed to the Vis- 
count de Varni and Elzear to alight from their horses. 
Dominique and Claude sprang from their seats. 

Notwithstanding, some of the companions of Drouet 
had quitted the group and sounded the alarm-bell. The 
windows opened ; the population, so calm an hour before, 
21 Q 


242 


CLOTILDE. 


awakened on every side. Questions, comments, cries of 
alarm, pity or hatred rang from one end of the street to 
the other. Some national guards joined Drouet, and es- 
corted the travellers on their walk; he kept a few steps 
in advance of them, and led this strange procession to- 
ward the house of Sausse, the chief magistrate of the 
community/ In the mean time, several torches had been 
lighted, and their ruddy glare, dancing along the walls of 
the houses, where it threw the dark shadows of the various 
actors in this scene in strong relief like moving ghosts, 
seemed to them like a flame from hell lent by Satan to 
the men whom he had inspired. 

After a walk of five minutes they arrived at the house 
of the chief magistrate, Sausse. This man, a grocer by 
trade, had just awakened from sleep. He received in his 
store, on the ground-floor, the band of wretches who 
brought to him the daughter of the Caesars and the great- 
grandson of Louis XIY. 

In a moment the shop was filled by the crowd. Sausse, 
who was not really a bad man, appeared timid and irres- 
olute. He stood with his back against the banister of a 
wooden staircase leading to the second story. In front of 
him, Drouet, his eyes beaming, pointed with a gesture of 
accusation to the group of travellers, who stood huddled 
together, striving to hide their anxiety. Behind the royal 
personages stood M. de Varni and Elzear, who, in obedi- 
ence to their masters, affected the indifference of household 
servants, annoyed but not alarmed. Still farther in the 
background stood Dominique and Claude, partially in 
shadow, and lost among the national guards and the in- 
habitants. 

Sausse hesitated ; by some strange chance none present 
knew the king or the queen. Some resemblance to the royal 
heads on the pieces of money, a distrust roused by the 


r 


THE DRAMA , . 


243 


peculiar carriage and rich equipage of the travellers, and 
that intuitive presentiment which seizes upon a populace 
under certain circumstances and at the sight of certain 
people, were all that were felt by this excited mob. 

“ Take care what you do,” said the king, without lower- 
ing himself by useless denials. “ There is the passport of 
the Baronne de Korff ; it is en regie, perfectly correct, 
dated the 5th of June, and good for a month.” 

The hesitation of Sausse became more evident; a new 
ray of hope illumined the hearts of the fugitives. 

“I repeat it, citizen magistrate,” cried Drouet, with 
irresistible energy, “if you allow the persons whom you 
now have. before you to go free, you will be guilty of high 
treason. I repeat, and if necessary will swear before God 
and man, that this pretended Baronne de Korff is the queen, 
Marie Antoinette, and this pretended valet de chambre is 
the king, Louis XYI. I do not tell you that I think so, 
but I say I am positive. I do not even say I am positive, 
but I tell you I know it to be so.” 

“You have seen them before?” asked the magistrate, 
his uncertainty vanishing before so much resolution and 
assurance. 

“ Better than that,” answered Drouet, whose eyes sought 
Claude’s sullen face in the crowd. 

“Better than that?” 

“Yes; the royal personages were pointed out to me at 
Sainte-Menehould by one of their suite, and for that reason 
I came here.” 

At this unexpected revelation a murmur of surprise ran 
round the room. Dominique Ermel, never doubting that 
the execrable informer was Claude, put his hand on the 
pistol hidden in his vest. Claude did not move. 

“A man in the suite?” repeated the magistrate, with 
solemnity. v 


244 


CLOTILDE. 


“Yes, a man in the suite,” replied Drouet, his voice 
breaking the deathlike stillness. 

“And which is this man?” 

“It is the young man dressed as a courier, in a blue 
and yellow livery and he pointed to Elzear de Yarni. 

We cannot depict the surprise that followed. 

The king, the queen, Madame Elizabeth, stood spell- 
bound. Their grief and astonishment were so great as to 
deprive them of the power to deny their identity any 
longer. As for the Viscount de Yarni and his unfortunate 
son, overwhelmed and spellbound with amazement, they 
looked around them with an air of utter unconsciousness. 
In vain they tried to open their mouths, to give the lie to 
the infamous calumniator, and relieve their hearts by a cry, 
such as is uttered by injured innocence. Their tongues 
were frozen, their lips glued; they stood there thunder- 
struck, silent and immovable as statues. Sausse was the 
first to break the silence. 

“ Are you sure it was this young man ?” he asked Drouet, 
in a voice still trembling with wonder. “ Tell us how this 
thing happened, and remember the honor of a man is at 
stake.” 

“ That gentleman bent from his saddle while the horses 
were being changed at Sainte-Menehould ; I was there, and 
he whispered in my ear these words : * These travellers are 
the king, queen, Madame Elizabeth, the dauphin, Madame 
Roy ale.’ ” 

Drouet pronounced these words with the greatest dis- 
tinctness. What motive could be attributed to him that 
could lead him to calumniate a man whom he appeared to 
have seen that day for the first time? 

Elzear tried to speak : the effort was vain ; his agitation 
had been too great ; nervous excitement still overpowered 
his mind and paralyzed his tongue ; his father, seeing him 


THE DRAMA. 


245 


so pale and speechless, began to think himself the sport of 
some frightful dream. He was about to raise his voice 
but Sausse, regarding them both with an air of contempt- 
uous pity, imposed silence upon them'; then addressing Louis 
XVI., he asked him in a firm, sad tone, 

“ Do you still deny that you are the king of France V’ 

“I no longer deny it.” 

“ That is well ; you must wait here for new orders. If you 
wish to rest, my whole house is at your service.” 

Louis XYI. and Marie Antoinette had resumed their 
royal bearing. Remembering that before night was over 
M. de Bouille could be at Varennes with troops enough to 
deliver them, hope did not even yet desert them. Once 
recognized, too, it was repugnant to their feelings to ask 
favors from men who should have bowed before them. 
Marie Antoinette cast a glance full of sorrowful dignity on 
the enraged mob around the room where her fate had just 
been decided, then moved toward the wooden staircase, to 
ascend to the apartment hastily being prepared for her. In 
doing so she passed before Elzear de Varni. 

“Oh, monsieur, what had we done to you?” said she, 
gently, and slowly ascending the stairs, she disappeared. 

The king followed, and passing before Elzear in his 
turn, “Monsieur,” said he, “if that man lied, I pity you; 
if he told the truth, I forgive.” 

Elzear was still mute; but at this moment his father, 
leaning toward the stairs, the lower steps of which Louis 
XYI. had ascended, said to him in a very low tone, “ Sire, 
there is some secret in all this ; my son is the victim of 
some frightful plot or some terrible mistake, but I will yet 
repair this evil. Will your majesty only try to gain time ? 
It is not midnight ; M. de Bouille is at Dun ; I will hasten 
to him, and at five in the morning we will be here with his 
regiment.” 

21 * 


246 


CLOTILDE. 


“Do so, monsieur; we will bless you,” answered the 
king, in his kind manner, and continuing the ascent of 
those miserable stairs, he disappeared at the same door 
through which the queen had passed. 

Favored by the tumult, M. de Varni advanced toward 
his son and took his hand. It was cold : he whispered a 
few words to him ; Elzear did not reply. The viscount saw 
with despair that the unfortunate young man, overwhelmed 
by this strange, inexplicable blow, was incapable of under- 
standing or accompanying him. Then turning to Domi- 
nique, who was almost as pale as Elzear, “ My friend,” said 
he, “ watch over my unhappy son.” 

Then he signed to Claude, whose face still retained its 
energetic expression. Claude approached him ; they glided 
furtively behind the mob, who, excited by the scenes which 
had just passed, were gazing with attention on the humble 
door which had a moment before closed on the royal fugi- 
tives ; then profiting by a favorable moment, they hurried 
from the house. 

As if Providence still desired to grant to M. de Varni a 
moment’s consolation and hope, they had scarcely taken a 
few steps in the street before they heard neighing. 

“ It is Fatima, my son’s mare,” exclaimed the viscount, 
joyfully. 

He was right ; at the corner of the street, halfway be- 
tween’the house of Sausse and the fatal arch, they recog- 
nized Zulma and Fatima, who had been left free, and whose 
excellent instinct urged them to follow on the road their 
masters must have taken. 

“Good, noble animals!” cried M. de Varni, seizing 
Zulma’s bridle and springing to her back with the activity 
of a young man. “Darnioli, mount quickly on Fatima, 
and forward !” 

“ Where are we going ?” asked Claude. 


THE DRAMA. 


247 


“ To Dun, with all speed, to find the Marquis de Bouille.” 

“Let us be off,” said Claude, already in his saddle. 
But by the dim light of a summer night, Claude had 
noticed a piece of glass shining on the pavement, part of 
the remains of a bottle, perhaps emptied by Drouet or 
one of his companions. Before mounting Fatima he 
picked it up and put it in his pocket. In a few minutes 
they left the town, and were soon gallopping over the road 
to Dun. 

The night was lovely, the two mares indefatigable, and 
the clock of Yarennes had not struck twelve before M. de 
Varni and Claude were far on their way. 


V. 


INNOCENT BLOOD. 

rpHE distance from Varennes to Dun is scarcely five 
J- leagues, but over a mountainous country and bad 
road. M. de Varni and Claude, gallopping over the crests 
of the hills, the descents of ravines, the edges of swamps 
and precipices, resembled the night riders of whom the 
German ballads have sung. Zulma and Fatima were so 
sure-footed that they cleared the most dangerous obstacles as 
if they were conscious of neither the obstacle nor the danger. 
But on coming to a part of the road where the ascent be- 
came so steep as to force them to relax the rapidity of 
their gait, M. de Varni reined his mare to a trot, and 

asked Claude, 

* 

“ How long do you think it is since we left Varennes ?” 

Claude looked at the sky, interrogating the stars with 
the experienced eye of a man accustomed to country life, 
and replied to the viscount, 

“ It is one in the morning.” 

“ So we must have made at least half the distance. We 
will reach Dun before day. There we will find M. de 
BouillS, who has come from Stenay to wait for tidings, and 
to be ready for any emergency. At six in the morning we 
can be back at Varennes. We will deliver the king, and 
then — oh then I can think of my .unfortunate son. I can 
question the calumniator, clear up this fearful mystery, 
learn the cause of this terrible blow. The king once saved 
the stain on the honor of my name must disappear, should 
I wipe it out with my blood.” 

248 


INNOCENT BLOOD. 


249 


Whilst the viscount was speaking the two riders reached 
the brow of a hill which overlooked the landscape for 
several leagues. The nights are so short at this season of 
the year that in the light of a pale strip, slightly tinged 
with opal, visible in the east, the stars were already begin- 
ning to pale. By the light of the early dawn M. de Yarni 
and Claude could see the road they still had to traverse. It 
was at first a long, steep descent, winding around the side 
of the hill they had just ascended. Lower, the road was 
lost in a vast forest, which stood out against the horizon 
like an immense shadow, the tops of its lofty hills scarcely 
gilded by the tints of early morning, and the outlines of its 
dense undergrowth barely visible in that dim light. Dun 
was beyond that forest. 

M. de Varni extended his hand in that direction. 
“ There is salvation,” cried he, striking the spur into 
Zulma’s side, to urge her to a gallop. But at this moment 
Claude and he both perceived that Zulma was uncurbed. 
Claude, like a well- taught steward, sprang to the ground, 
and at the same time examined the noble animal as if to see 
that all was right. He stooped, and quick as lightning he 
broke up the piece of glass which he had picked up at Ya- 
rennes, and introduced one fragment between Zulma’s hoof 
and foot. 

Then he approached Fatima, and went through the same 
operation. Another second he was in his saddle, signing to 
the viscount that he was ready to follow him. 

The two mares were so heated that for the first few 
minutes their gait was unaltered, but it soon became 
slower, and M. de Yarni exclaimed, in an accent of grief 
and rage, 

“ Darnioli, my mare limps.” 

“ That is singular — mine too,” answered Claude. 

“ Oh misfortune ! What can have happened to them ?” 


250 


CLOTILDE. 


“ It is nothing but fatigue. Remember that since leaving 
Chalons they have eaten nothing, and we are going at a 
diabolical pace.” 

“Yes, diabolical,” interrupted M. de Varni, with a 
frantic laugh. “ Yes, it was the devil indeed who spoke a 
few hours since by the mouth of that informer. It is hell 
that stops us just as we reach the end of our journey. Ah ! 
I deceived myself. God has not yet forgiven me.” 

Zulma and Fatima stumbled every instant. At every 
instant, too, the despair of the viscount became more 
violent. He spurred his steed incessantly, and, unaccus- 
tomed to such treatment, she reared, covered with sweat, 
or stopped suddenly across the road, trembling like a leaf. 

The minutes were passing. Day was gradually dawning. 
M. de Yarni was frantic with grief. During the horrible 
scene in the magistrate’s house he had been sustained by 
the hope of saving the king. Then, the exciting rapidity 
of his ride, the idea of reaching Dun before day,' had 
quelled his anxiety while it diverted his mind, but now the 
full reality faced him. Elzear dishonored, the king a 
prisoner, the task he had undertaken so eagerly failing, 
broken, lost, — such were the thoughts that rose like phan- 
toms before him. 

His pulse beat, his head burned ; he passed from curses 
to prayers. Now he plead with Zulma as if she could 
understand him, “For pity’s sake, these two more leagues,” 
stroking her neck with his hand ; now he beat her furiously, 
and in the mean while time was flying and the riders were 
making no progress. 

At length Claude said to M. de Yarni, “ Monsieur le 
Yiscount, the finer animals are, to the greater extent are 
they incapacitated by such treatment. Let us yield to 
them and go slowly, if it is necessary. If we have really 
but two leagues farther to go, and only this forest to 


INNOCENT BLOOD. 


251 


traverse, we may. yet reach Dun before the departure of 
the Marquis de Bouille.” 

M. de Varni yielded to this advice; they entered the 
forest slowly, but there the road was no longer distinct, and 
although it was broad daylight, the viscount and Claude 
had difficulty in finding their way. On reaching a cross- 
road where several roads met to which they could see no 
termination, they were again in doubt, and hesitated an 
instant. At the end of one of these paths they saw a wood- 
cutter’s house. Claude, who appeared to share all his 
master’s distress, offered to hasten to this cottage and in- 
quire of the inhabitants the shortest way to Dun. He 
sprang to the ground, and ran toward it with the greatest 
eagerness ; having reached it, he made the circuit of the 
house, waited another quarter of an hour there, and re- 
turning out of breath, told M. de Varni that he had been 
able to find no one. In short, when they at last left this 
accursed forest, and perceived the spire of the church of 
Dun still some distance from them, Claude, calculating the 
hour by the position of the sun, saw with secret joy that it 
was five o’clock in the morning. 

Ten minutes later they arrived in Dun. At the gate of 
the town they met a soldier in a peasant’s costume, who, 
after scanning them with attention, said in a low tone, 

“ Espoir, Montmedy.” 

“ Espoir, Montm&dy,” repeated the riders. 

“ M. de Bouille has just gone,” then said the soldier; 
“he was weary of waiting, and thought that the king must 
have been detained at Varennes.” 

“It is but too true!” replied M. de Varni, mournfully. 

“He has fallen back to Stenay to take with him the 
Royal- Allemand, which is prepared to hasten to Varennes 
to deliver the king. Bide in that direction : perhaps you 
may meet him.” 


252 


CLOTILDE. 


“Ah, we might have been here two hours since!” ex- 
claimed the viscount, despairingly. “Those two hours 
have caused the shame of my family, the loss of the un- 
fortunate monarch !” 

The soldier understood nothing of his meaning. Claude, 
then thinking he could now lose nothing by curing Zulma 
and Fatima, began to examine them carefully, adroitly re- 
moved the two pieces of glass, showed the two sores, the 
cause of which there was no time to inquire, and bathed 
them with brandy. They then entered an inn which the 
soldier pointed out to them, had oats given to their horses, 
gave them time to rest a little, and again started at the 
expiration of an. hour to meet M. de Bouille. 

They overtook him about halfway between Dun and 
Stenay ; he was marching at the head of the regiment, the 
Royal- Allemand, which was in excellent order, and which 
the marquis, by a few words of military frankness, had 
gotten completely under his control. 

M. de Bouille recognized the Viscount de Varni, in 
whose countenance, cast down and rigid with grief, were 
written the events of that night. 

“Well?” said he, quivering with impatience. 

“Well, Monsieur le Viscount, the king was arrested last 
night at Varennes.” 

“At what hour?” 

“ At eleven.” 

“At eleven in the evening! And it is now six!” ex- 
claimed M. de Bouill6, looking at his watch. “It has 
taken you seven hours to come seven leagues when the 
safety of the king of France was in danger ! Ah, I am 
forced to repent of having chosen you !” 

At any other time these words, addressed before wit- 
nesses to a man as proud as M. de Varni, would have 
called forth some violent display and an immediate clial- 


* 


INNOCENT BLOOD. 


253 


lenge. But his haughty heart was so crushed by the • 
emotions he had passed through, that it was almost with 
the manner of a criminal that the viscount answered, 

“ Pardon me, monsieur ; my horses met with an accident.” 
“ Under such circumstances we ensure against accidents,” 
replied M. de Bouill6, brusquely. Then turning to the offi- 
cers and soldiers of the Royal- Allemand, he said, 

“ Your king is within a few leagues of you ; the in- 
habitants of Yarennes have arrested him. Will you leave 
him insulted and a prisoner in the power of the' people? 
He is waiting for you, he counts the minutes. Let us 
hasten to deliver him and restore him to the nation and to 
liberty ! I march with you : follow me !” 

“Yes, yes, to Yarennes!” shouted the whole regiment, 
with the greatest enthusiasm. At the expiration of two 
hours, and as they had just repassed the forest of Dun, 
they saw a small party of gentlemen coming toward them, 
amongst whom the viscount, with fresh distress, recognized 
Elzear and Dominique. These gentlemen were coming 
from Yarennes ; by their expression of depression and sad- 
ness it was easy to anticipate the news they brought. 

“M. de Goguelas,” said the Marquis de Bouill6 to the 
person who seemed the principal one of the party, “ what 
tidings have you for us ?” 

“ All is over,” said the officer, sadly ; “ the king and the 
royal family left Yarennes an hour ago.” 

“But we can meet them, overpower the escort which 
guards them as prisoners and bring them back in the 
midst of their \faithful soldiers,” cried M. de Bouille, in 
the accents of despair. “We can — ” 

“ Do nothing,” interrupted M. de Goguelas ; “ between 
the king and ourselves there are now one hundred thou- 
sand of the national guards ; moreover, he has forbidden 
it.” 


22 


254 


CLOTILDE. 


“It is then true; all is oyer,” murmured M. de'Bouille, 
overcome with grief ; then raising his head and fixing on 
the officer his eyes, in which tears glistened in spite of 
himself, “ M. de Goguelas, your report,” said he, coolly. 

“It is this, general : All passed well as far as Pont-du- 
Vesle : there the presence of the hussars had made some 
excitement; nevertheless, the royal carriages made the 
change of horses without any difficulty. There was the 
same excitement at Sainte-Menehould. There, owing to the 
popular agitation, M. d’Andoins was obliged to order his 
dragoons back to the rendezvous several hours before the 
carriages passed through. Yet there, too, they were able 
to change horses, and passed on, notwithstanding these 
signs of suspicion and distrust, but that short time was 
sufficient for an inhabitant of Sainte-Menehould to undo 
all we had done.” 

“What did he do?” 

“Having, in the capacity of postmaster, all the horses 
for relay at his disposal, he mounted the best, and took a 
crossroad, which gave him an hour’s advantage of us ; he 
reached Yarennes before the king, aroused his friends, 
gave the alarm and rang the bell. The king was arrested, 
taken before the chief magistrate of the place, and there, 
after some useless denials, forced to acknowledge his iden- 
tity.” 

“ After?” 

“That occurred at eleven o’clock in the evening. The 
king then tried to gain time, hoping that you would yet 
be in time to save him. He knew that one of the gentle- 
men who had escorted him from Chalons had left in great 
haste to come in search of you, and to bring you to 
Yarennes.” 

“It is true,” replied M. de Bouill6, ironically; “this 
gentleman has ridden with such haste that we have only 


INNOCENT BLOOD. 


255 


to thank him that I was not there in time.” He looked 
at M. de Varni, then adcfed, “Continue, M. de Goguelas.” 

“ I had been in the town since the preceding evening,” 
resumed the latter, “seeing that the relay was prepared 
according to your orders, and holding myself in readiness 
to join the escort of the carriages, with the officers who 
had not left me, and whose conduct was worthy of the 
noble cause we had embraced.” 

As he spoke he presented to the general by gesture the 
gentlemen who formed part of his little party. M. de 
Bouille bowed, and M. de Goguelas continued : 

M Under cover of the darkness and disorder we suc- 
ceeded in getting near the house of Sausse, where the king 
was detained. The king managed to communicate his 
orders and his hopes to us. We were to wait, our hands 
on our pistols, for the moment of your arrival to make 
a diversion, surround the royal personages, and in spite 
of our small number give you the means to get near 
them.” 

“ Ah, and success would have been certain,” interrupted 
M. de Bouille, wringing his hands. 

“You can understand what a night of suspense this 
has been for us. Every instant raised hopes which the 
next would destroy. Each "noise from without, each 
weapon gleaming in the shadow, seemed to us the signal 
of deliverance. Ah, what would we not have given to 
retard the day so swiftly advancing, the first dawn of 
which was already painting the horizon ! Vain hope, vain 
efforts ! Day broke, the sun shone on that fatal house in 
which were imprisoned such hopes, such^sorrows ; hours 
rolled away : no one had appeared.” 

“ And then ?” 

“Then the king again tried to postpone his departure. 
His children were asleep ; he begged that they might not 


256 


CLOTILDE. 


be awakened. One of the ladies was taken sick ; it was 
necessary to restore her. But at last, at seven o’clock, the 
orders were given formally. The national guards and the 
patriots gathered from all parts of the neighboring country, 
armed with guns, scythes and pitchforks. Hostile cries and 
threats arose from the midst of this constantly-increasing 
crowd. The royal family reached that state of discourage- 
ment and fatigue in which we think ourselves abandoned 
by God, when we seem to have only a choice of misfortunes 
left to us, and become indifferent to them through excess 
of grief and misery. The king gave the signal for de- 
parture, and a quarter of an hour after the royal carriages 
started, surrounded by an escort very different, alas ! from 
the one they had expected.” 

“Is this all ?” asked M. de Bouilffi. 

There was a moment of silence, during which a murmur 
was heard among the group of officers who accompanied 
M. de Goguelas. The latter replied, sadly, 

“ No, general, it is not all, but I doubt if it would not be 
best for me to suppress what remains for me to tell you.” 

“ Tell all. I desire to know all,” cried M. de Bouille, in 
a tone which admitted of no resistance. 

“Well, Drouet, the postmaster who rode from Sainte- 
Meneliould to Yarennes to have the king arrested, was at 
first unable to convince the magistrate. There was great 
doubt in his mind in regard to the identity of the royal 
family. And then, in proof of what he affirmed, the 
wretch said that the king had been pointed out to him by 
one of the gentlemen who had accompanied the carriage 
from Chalons.”# 

<F And which of the ’gentlemen was it?” asked M. de 
Bouill6, with a shudder. 

Without saying a word, but bowing his head in token of 
sorrow, M. de Goguelas pointed to Elzear de Yarni. 


INNOCENT BLOOD. 


257 


M. de Bouille was enraged, and a few bounds of liis 
horse brought him to Elzear’s side. 

“ You !” cried he, raising his sword over him. “ Yes — it 
is no dream. It is young Elzear de Varni, son of the Vis- 
count de Varni. Let us see, monsieur. Speak but one 
word. Explain your conduct ! Speak, or I will kill you.” 

Elzear was silent. 

“ Ah ! I remember,” said M. de Bouille, whose ideas 
after the first minute of fury gradually recovered their 
balance. “ It was the father of this fine gentleman, it was 
M. de Varni himself, who took it upon him last night to 
bring me the news, and spent seven hours in accomplish- 
ing what required but two. Ah ! it is well,” continued 
he, with a contemptuous sneer ; “ the father and son are 
worthy of each other. I have been happy in my choice 
of assistants.” 

The Viscount de Varni suffered the torments of hell. 
But how to explain this ? What proof could he give of his 
own and his son’s innocence? Drouet was no longer there. 
There was no way to prove that he had lied. The acci- 
dents, the detentions, which had caused him to lose three 
hours in the forest of Dun — how could he speak in the 
face of such terrible evidence, and before these exasperated 
men? 

M. de Varni looked at his son, hoping that a word of 
explanation, one decisive word, would fall from his lips. 
His face was pale as death. He looked perfectly stupefied. 
As we have said, Elzear was stunned. 

“Will you speak, one or other of you?” resumed M. de 
Bouille, whose rage knew no bounds. “You, whom her 
Majesty, Marie Antoinette, herself designated — you, whom 
I sought in your obscurity, to associate you in the noblest 
task that could fall to the lot of gentlemen — you, who re- 
turn perfidy for kindness, ingratitude for benefits, — who are 
22* R 


258 


CLOTILDE. 


you ? What demon threw you in my path ? Ah ! at least 
such wickedness, such villainy, shall not go unpunished ;” 
and he again turned to Elzear, aiming his sword at his 
breast. Elzear did not move, except to open his arms and 
brace his shoulders the better to receive the blow. 

“ No,” said M. de Bouille, “ I am ashamed to strike a 
defenceless man. Whatever be the mysterious motive 
which has guided you, whether fatality or crime, leave, 
fly, let me see you no more. But as every one must bear 
the burden of his own deeds, and no shadow can rest on an 
event which overthrows a monarchy and changes the des- 
tiny of a people, your execrable names shall live in my 
memory, and history shall know that it was you, and you 
alone, who prevented my saving the royal family. Mes- 
sieurs de Yarni, from this time you are dishonored !” 

At this word, which fell like a blow on the viscount and 
his son, M. de Yarni felt his tongue loosed ; he was about 
to speak, but he had not time : Elzear prevented him. 

He too had felt the word of dishonor sink into his inner- 
most soul, reawakening suffering and life. A sudden flush 
replaced that deathlike pallor which had overspread his 
face the evening before; his heavy eyes became reani- 
mated. He walked straight to his father, and said to him, 
“ Monsieur, I at this moment remember that your mother 
was from Ajaccio ; there is Corsican blood in your veins.” 

“ What do you mean ?” 

“ In Corsica, when a son dishonors his father, that father 
kills him: kill me;” and with a gesture terrible in its 
simplicity, he presented to his father the handle of his 
pistol. M. de Varni drew back, shuddering with horror. 
“ My father,” then said Elzear, in a tone of earnest sup- 
plication, “ there is but one way. My religion forbids me 
to kill myself: moreover, suicide will appear like a fresh 
evidence of despair and infamy. And yet you know — oh 


INNOCENT BLOOD. 


259 


yes, you know — that I cannot survive. Hear me! God, 
who pities me, has restored the clearness of my mind. If 
you kill me, it will be a proof that . you renounce all re- 
sponsibility in my disgrace. I once dead, you will again 
become innocent. Before my corpse the just anger of M. 
de Bouille must expire, and he may then consent to leave 
in oblivion the two names that he has devoted to infamy.” 

“ No, it is too frightful ; I should never have the courage,” 
murmured the viscount, turning away. 

During .this rapid dialogue, the officers had formed them- 
selves into a semicircle ; they looked at M. de Yarni and 
Elzear with mournful curiosity. The treason of the latter 
appeared to them so strange, so inexplicable, it was so mon- 
strous an exception to their ideas of honor, the patrimony 
of all men alike, and was in such contrast with the noble 
young figure of Elzear, that they every instant looked for 
some unexpected explanation. But Elzear again turned 
toward them, his eyes burning as with fever. 

“ Gentlemen,” said he to them, “ I am overwhelmed with 
terrible suspicions ; I will not lower myself by denying their 
justice. To have seen the king and queen taken before my 
very eyes, while I was powerless to save them, is enough 
to make me long for death. My father and I are under 
the weight of some fatality which we now have neither the 
hope nor the time to remove. I have just demanded of M. 
de Yarni the only service I can henceforth expect from 
those who love me : I have begged him to kill me. He 
refuses: .which of you is willing to take his place?” 

As he uttered these words Elzear’s attitude was so nojble, 
such frankness and courage shone in his face, that the offi- 
cers were moved, and admiration succeeded their astonish- 
ment and anger. 

Elzear went first to M. de Bouill6, and handed him the 
pistol. 


260 


CLOTILDE. 


“No,” said the general, “you shall not make me a mur- 
derer. If innocent, your death would be a crime ; if guilty, 
your blood would soil my hands.” 

Without uttering a word, Elzear turned to M. de Gog- 
uelas, and addressed to him the same gesture, the same 
silent prayer. 

“ No,” replied M. de Goguelas, “ I am a soldier ; I am 
not an executioner. 

Elzear passed successively to each of the officers who 
formed the little troop, but obtained only similar answers. 
The young man then came to Dominique Ermel ; the latter 
regarded him with an indescribable expression of grief and 
affection ; he took his hand and covered it with tears and 
kisses, refusing the pistol. 

“ Oh, M. Elzear, I hope you will not ask it of me.” 

Claude alone remained. At the moment Elzear ap- 
proached him an attentive observer might have read on 
his impassive features an unmistakable expression of joy 
and gratified hatred, but this expression quickly faded, 
and he replied in a tone of respectful sorrow, 

“Pardon, monsieur; it is the first time I have disobeyed 
you.” 

“You see there is none but yourself,” cried Elzear, 
again turning to his father. 

M. de Yarni remained motionless. 

“ If you still refuse, I will kill myself,” said Elzear, in a 
low voice. “We will be dishonored in this world, and I 
shall be damned in the next.” 

M. de Varni’s hand touched the pistol, but he did not 
take it. 

“You know well, monsieur, this is not a moment to 
hesitate before a resolution like mine. Choose ; I give you 
five minutes, during which I will collect my thoughts and 
pray.” 


INNOCENT BLOOD. 


261 


Elzear drew out his watch, then fell on his knees ; the 
pistol was still in his hand, but within his father’s reach. 

The prayer was short and fervent. “ The king, the queen , 
Adrienne, Eaymon, my mother /” were the only words the 
viscount heard. 

All around shuddered with horror ; all eyes were fixed 
on these two men. Elzear arose. 

“ The five minutes have passed,” he said ; “ my father, I 
wait.” 

M. de Yarni took the pistol ; a half-suppressed scream 
escaped from every bystander. 

“ Vive le roi !” exclaimed the young man, as his father 
pulled the trigger. 

“Vive le roi!” repeated the viscount, and at the same 
instant the shot went off. Elzear fell, bathed in his blood. 
The ball had reached his heart : he was dead. 

“ All who are here,” then said M. de Yarni, still hold- 
ing the smoking pistol in his hand — “ all who are here, all 
are witnesses that I have repurchased my honor : are you 
content with the price ?” 

No one answered; M. de Yarni then, turning to M. de 
Bouille and pointing to Elzear’s body, said : 

“ M. le Marquis, may I hope that this blood will suffice 
to efface my name from the page of dishonor on which you 
would have inscribed it ?” 

“Yes,” replied the marquis; “but you fill me with 
horror. I promise to forget you ; henceforth, in my mind, 
you and your unhappy son will be as though you had 
never been in existence; neither he nor you shall live in 
history as actors in the events of the past night. Is this 
what you desire ?” 

“Yes.” 

“Let us part, then, never to meet again — and may 
God forgive as man ignores you. Gentlemen,” added he, 


262 


CLOTILDE. 


addressing the officers, “let the body of M. Elzear de 
Yarni be buried with military honors.” 

“ It is well, sir ; I thank you,” said the viscount. “Adieu, 
and oblivion.” 

“ Adieu, and oblivion,” answered M. de Bouille, turning 
from the miserable father. 

M. de Yarni signed to Dominique and Claude ; they all 
three took the road toward the south; in a few minutes 
they were out of sight of M. de Bouille and his com- 
panions. When they were alone, M. de Yarni said, turn- 
ing toward them, his face expressive of such frantic grief 
that they were alarmed, 

“ Now take me where I may die.” 

“ To Avignon, then,” answered Claude. 

“ To Avignon,” said the viscount. 

And they resumed their road without exchanging 
another word. 


YI. 

LA GLACIERE. 


rpEN days later M. de Yarni arrived at Avignon, and 
-** re-entered his deserted mansion. During the whole 
journey he had uttered but few words. They were to beg 
Dominique and Claude to allow Adrienne, Elzear’s widow, 
to suppose that he had met his death by the ball or poniard 
of a patriot, gladly yielding his life for the preservation of 
the royal captives. 

H^e shut himself up for a whole week, refusing to see 
any one, even Dominique or Claude. At the end of that 
time he wrote Adrienne a few sad, forcible lines, to inform 
her of the catastrophe which had overtaken them. She 
was still at Tavelay with Raymon. But Adrienne already 
knew it. Dominique, after the horrible scenes at Yarennes 
and in the forest of Dun, had been a prey to the deepest 
despair, and had sought, in the midst of his affliction, to 
soften the blow which would break the heart of the noble 
widow. He felt that Antoinette, his wife, and Adeline, his 
daughter-in-law, would best know the secret of mingling 
consolation with the dreadful tidings, and he sent them to 
Tavelay charged with the solemn task. The two women 
were dressed in mourning. I do not remember, Monsieur 
le Yiscount, whether, carried away with my narrative, I told 
you that, a year after their marriage, Agricol and Adeline 
Ermel had had a son. (That child was myself.) Adeline 
dressed him also in black, and took him with her. When they 
arrived at Tavelay their appearance announced to Adrienne 

263 


264 


CLO TILDE. 


the sad intelligence of which they had come to apprise her. 
Before their lips were opened, “ Elzear is dead !” she said 
to them. Their only answer was to throw themselves in 
her arms, and for several minutes nothing passed between 
these three pure beings but a mournful exchange of tears, 
kisses, caresses and lamentations. Baymon and Calixte, 
too young to understand grief, wept to see their mothers 
weep. 

Adrienne knew so well Elzear’s noble heart, chivalrous 
bravery and poetical devotion that she never doubted that 
he had been killed in trying to defend the king. The 
details, which Antoinette and Adeline repeated to her as 
Dominique Ermel had given them to them, confirmed this 
idea. To her pious, courageous soul this great grief was 
tempered with a secret joy. M. de Yarni, in the letter in 
which he had informed her of their affliction, left her free 
to remain at Tavelay or to join him. A few hours later 
she was in Avignon, embracing the viscount, with Baymon 
in her arms. 

The interview was solemn, and little was said. “ He 
did his duty, did he not ?” asked Adrienne of M. de Varni. 
He bowed his head in token of affirmation. She asked no 
more, not wishing to recall those dreadful memories to his 
mind, and thinking herself sufficiently informed by An- 
toinette and Adeline. There was little expression of 
sympathy between the viscount and his daughter-in-law. 
They passed some time together in their sad, empty house, 
but nothing in their mutual relations tended to soften the 
affliction which overwhelmed them. During that time the 
revolution grew every day more violent in the Comtat ; and 
if M. de Yarni and Adrienne had not been so absorbed in 
their grief as to be indifferent alike to danger and to what 
was passing around them, they would not have remained a 
moment longer in a city where death was constantly threat- 


LA GLACIEEE. 


265 


ening them. Nevertheless, two or three months rolled 
away, and they were still unmolested. Without being 
aware of it, they were protected by Claude. Their im- 
placable persecutor, who was secretly leagued with the 
revolutionists, could have had every inhabitant of the 
Yarni mansion poniarded at a single word. He took, on 
the contrary, a savage pleasure in postponing the last act 
of his vengeance, and so prolonging their agonies. 

One morning, in the month of October, Claude called 
upon Dominique Ermel. Since the scene at Varennes, 
Dominique could never look at him without shuddering 
with horror; and yet such was the influence this man 
exercised over him, such was still, after the lapse of thirty- 
five years, the power of the recollection of the death and 
will of Clotilde de Yarni, that after a vain resistance he 
always yielded. 

“Dominique,” said Claude to his old friend, “although 
during our journey to Yarennes you seemed strongly in- 
clined to. blow out my brains, I still love you. I have 
come to give you a piece of advice.” 

“ And if I 'refuse to follow it ?” answered Dominique, 
pale with anger and fear. 

“ Then the advice will change its name, and be called 
a command.” 

“Speak, then, since it would be vain to attempt to exor- 
cise the demon that breathes in you.” 

“ I warn you that in a few days there will be warm work 
in Avignon, and as my protection may become powerless, 
and I do not wish you or yours to perish, I advise you to 
seek some asylum.” 

“But where must I go?” said the notary, trembling 
at the thought of the peril his wife and children would 
be in. 

“ I have thought of it,” answered Claude ; “ in my 
23 


266 


CLOTILDE. 


capacity of steward to the Viscount de Varni, I give, or 
rather rent you the castle of Maleraygues.” 

“ Maleraygues !” exclaimed Dominique, to whose mind 
this name recalled the frightful moment when he had seen 
Clementine and Julie fall into the abyss called the Trou- 
du-Renard, and Edwige expire in his arms in despair. 

“Yes, Maleraygues,” resumed Claude, his features 
assuming a more sinister expression. “ You may be sure 
it requires courage for me to pronounce that name and 
call up its associations. But in devoting myself to this 
work of vengeance and punishment I foresaw that my 
enemies would not be the only ones to suffer ; that in chas- 
tising them I would perish myself too ; that this weapon, 
put into my hands by Clotilde, was too murderous, too 
terrible, not to strike both victims and executioners with 
one blow; and I prepared myself. for the combat in ad- 
vance : I steeled my heart against grief, as my conscience 
against remorse. I have suffered, but I have never grown 
weak; my heart has been broken, but I have remained 
firm; and now that I approach the end of this bloody 
tragedy, you will neither see me shrink nor hesitate.” 

This firmness and energy in evil vanquished Dominique; 
he waited in silence for Claude to continue. 

“It is then settled: you go to Maleraygues; you cannot 
find a safer retreat at this time ; it is a quiet part of the 
country, which the revolution has not ye‘t reached, and its 
belt of green mountains protects it from the tempests which 
are lowering here. But you will not go there alone : you 
must take my son Jerome with you, and Raymon, the 
child of Elzear de Varni — ” 

“ Ah, I understand,” interrupted the notary, with bitter- 
ness ; “ the latter must live that some twenty years hence 
this series of revenge and crimes may recommence.” 

“Yes, so Clotilde commanded, and I will obey her to 


LA GLACIERE. 


267 


my latest breath ; it is for you, who have the confidence of 
the Viscount de Varni and his daughter-in-law, to prevail 
upon them to part with the child. This will not be diffi- 
cult; you have but to tell them that they are in great 
danger in Avignon : this will be a sufficient argument to 
induce them to send Raymon away and remain here them- 
selves.” 

“ I will obey,” said Dominique, after a short pause. 

“Well, but this is not all,” continued Claude, struggling 
against an emotion which he finally controlled. “You 
must pass through Bagnols ; my son Jerome is at college 
there. I dp not wish to have him with me during the crisis 
which threatens us ; you must take him with you to Maler- 
aygues, and then you must give him this letter, which con- 
tains my last instructions, for Jerome will never see me 
again.” 

“ And why will you not see him again ?” asked Domi- 
nique, shuddering at this implacable will and terrible fore- 
sight. 

“ Because it would soften me, and that is no part of my 
role,” replied Claude, forcing himself to appear calm. “ I 
must forget that I am a father, as I once forgot that I was 
a husband.” 

“Well, then?” 

“ Then this is agreed upon. You will start to-morrow, 
after having prevailed upon the Viscount de Varni and 
Madame Elzear to confide Raymon to your care; you 
will take Jerome out of the college at Bagnols, you will 
give him my letter, and you will make arrangements for 
him to leave France with the least possible delay. After 
that, shut yourself in Maleraygues; let the storm pass; try 
to remain in obscurity ; and, above all, forget me. If re- 
ports of carnage and death reach you from Avignon, do 
not seek to learn the part I have taken in them, nor to 




268 


CLOTILDE. 


know that I will have become. ... You will raise Raymon 
de Varni with as much care as if he was your own 
child, and he will grow under your eyes, and you will be 
his tutor. Then when the time will arrive, your son will 
obey Jerome, as you have obeyed me. I have finished.” 

Dominique was about to answer : Claude stopped him. 

“Not another word on the subject,” said he; “you know 
that you will never move me. Now, Dominique,” con- 
tinued Claude, in a voice somewhat less rude — “ now that 
we are about to part for ever, shall we part enemies?” 

“And how would you have us part?” answered the 
notary, sadly. “ All the evil that I have seen done in this 
world you have done; all I have myself been guilty of 
you have dictated to me. I have seen pure, lovely beings 
perish, struck by your hand, seconded by mine; I have 
seen the royal family arrested before my eyes, and by some 
infernal power their royal heads were crushed by the same 
blow which ruined the viscount and his son. You have 
created for me a double existence — on one side all happi- 
ness, peace, virtue, brightness ; on the other, all hatred, 
crime and darkness. There paradise — here hell. How can 
you expect me to regard you save as an enemy ?” 

“Nevertheless,” said Claude, gradually yielding to some 
strange emotion, “ I was not born wicked, Dominique. Do 
you remember our first twenty years, our pure and beautiful 
love? Ah, that Claude Rioux, the poor boatman of the 
Rhone, who passed you in his boat, and answered you by 
the dear name of Julie when you murmured the sweet 
word Antoinette — that Claude no longer exists. He passed 
from life the day when he inhaled with Clotilde’s dying, 
feverish breath the genius of hatred and revenge! Yes, 
Dominique, God would not permit that such a mission 
should be accepted with impunity, that a heart should be 
devoted to crime without becoming guilty! The feeling 


LA GLACIEBE . 


269 


which bound me entirely to Clotilde’s will, I have felt grow 
into my very being, gradually transforming me till it be- 
came a second nature ; since that, I have no longer followed 
the will of another, but my own ! The work to which I was 
condemned I have accomplished as my own ; I no longer 
obey, I act. Clotilde’s heart has become mine; there is no 
longer a Claude Rioux, there is only a D’Arrioules, a Dar- 
nioli, a creature without a name, an instrument of torture 
and death, created to strike like the dagger, to kill like 
poison, to punish like a judge!” 

In spite of the unconquerable horror with which Claude 
filled him, the notary was deeply moved on hearing these 
words. Claude continued : 

“ Dominique, do you know what has been the one ray of 
comfort in the bloody darkness which has fallen over my 
soul ? I knew that I was the only guilty one of the three 
executors of Clotilde de Varni’s will ; that I assumed all 
the responsibility of our crimes ; that you, the friend of my 
youth, and my unfortunate Julie, would both remain inno- 
cent, even in those horrible moments when I forced you to 
become my accomplices. Dominique, do you now under- 
stand why I would not part from you as an enemy ?” and 
he held out his hand to the notary. 

“Well!” said the latter, “if you wish me to touch the 
hand you extend to me, grant me one favor.” 

Claude’s brow grew immediately dark. 

“It is this,” continued Dominique — “ a favor I ask in the 
name of the recollections you have evoked. I am con- 
nected with three persons who have never done any wrong, 
who do not suspect it — Antoinette, my wife, the friend of 
your beloved Julie, Adeline, my daughter-in-law, and 
Agricol, my son. Allow all three to remain ignorant to 
^the end of the direful work in which I am associated, the 
murderous atmosphere which they have unconsciously 


270 


CL 0 TILDE. 


breathed. Your son Jerome is not yet eighteen, Agricol is 
over thirty ; Calixte, my grandson, is but one year younger 
than Raymon de Varni, the heir of this unfortunate 
family — ” 

“Well?” interrupted Claude, impatiently. 

“ Well, is there no way in which Clotilde’s will may 
affect only my grandson and myself? I will retain this 
office till my death, and I will arrange it so that after my 
death Agricol will give it up to his son as soon as he is 
thirty years of age. In this way there will be no break. 
Remember, too, that Raymon de Yarni is scarcely five, and 
according to. Clotilde’s commands, we must wait till each of . 
these unfortunate creatures marries and has a son, so that 
our vengeance may continue from generation to generation. 
Many years must pass, and this young Raymon still re- 
main sacred to us. Grant that Agricol may profit by those 
years of respite. Later, I will leave my instructions to 
Calixte, as you leave yours to Jerome. Ah, Claude, since 
amid your thoughts of death and bloodshed a moment has 
been given to affectionate recollections of the past, do not 
refuse your old friend this favor, and in spite of the injury 
you have done me, notwithstanding all that you have 
forced me to do, Claude, we will not part until I have 
clasped your hand.” 

“ I understand,” said Claude, in a tone of raillery, min- 
gled with sadness; “you wish me to grant what you nota- 
ries call a substitution.” 

“ Exactly,” answered Dominique, trying to smile. 

“ W ell, I consent to it. But do not forget that Jerome’s 
mission remains intact. Agricol may rest ignorant of all, 
but my son must be no less free to act if circumstances 
require it. And now, Dominique, farewell.” 

“ Farewell ; I thank you ; may God forgive you ! Alas ! 
when you are near me I no longer feel myself worthy to 


LA GLACIERE. 


271 


pray. Claude, here is my hand : hut for you it would 
have been pure. But I bear you no ill-will; it is from 
Hyeres, from the 10th October, 1756, that the voice which 
has led us both has issued.” 

Claude and Dominique shook hands hastily, and the 
notary was left alone. A short time after he repaired to 
the Viscount de Varni’s and asked for his daughter-in- 
law. When Adrienne had come, he informed them that 
they could not remain a day longer in Avignon without 
incurring the greatest danger. 

“ I have long foreseen it,” answered the viscount, with an 
expression almost of joy. “ I only feel that these dangers 
have been long delayed.” 

“ And I too,” said Adrienne. 

“Yes, but you have a child,” replied Dominique; “do 
you wish Raymon to be exposed to danger with you ?” 

The grandfather remained silent, the mother shuddered. 
Dominique continued : 

“It is not for me to advise you, but allow me to say 
that if you wish Raymon to be in safety I will take charge 
of him. I will take him to the country with my own 
family, to a place far from our unhappy city, which the 
revolution has not reached.” 

“ Thanks, Ermel,” said the viscount. 

“ Oh, monsieur, I thank you, and shall owe to you the 
peace of my last hours,” added the young widow. 

“But will you not come too? Will you not seek an 
asylum ?” asked the notary, timidly, looking alternately at 
M. de Varni and Adrienne. 

“ My daughter-in-law may do as she wishes,” replied the 
viscount, “ but I remain here.” 

“I do not remain here,” exclaimed Adrienne; “I 
go to Elzear! and I shall count the hours until I join 
him.” 


272 


CLOTILDE. 


These words were so impassioned that the viscount and 
Dominique trembled. 

“ My daughter,” said M. de Varni, “ I do not presume 
to command you, but reflect : your life is not over, like 
mine; you can still do something in this world. You have 
a child — ” At the same time the viscount rung, and said 
to the servant who answered the bell, “Let Raymon be 
brought here.” 

Raymon came. He was a pretty child of five summers, 
with fresh, rosy cheeks, and long silken hair falling over 
his neck in curls. He sprang on to his mother’s knees ; 
she pressed him to her heart with an expression of unutter- 
able tenderness. “ Poor child !” said she, “ born on the eve 
of a storm ; an orphan at five. But I feel that I no longer 
belong to this world. Elzear calls me ; my heart was so 
strongly united to his that God has broken mine in sepa- 
rating us. What good could I do you? I would die 
slowly; you would see me languish and expire in your 
arms, and then, perhaps, you would be no longer young 
enough to lose your mother without mourning her loss. 
Ah, I will at least spare you that anguish, the most ter- 
rible that can afflict a man here below ; I will not save 
my life from the cruelties of the revolution which has 
taken Elzear’s. We breathed the same breath, the same 
sentiment kept us alive ; we will die the same death. 
Adieu, dear child ! may you be happier than your grand- 
father, your father or your mother. May God protect, as 
I bless you! May he guide, as I love you! For three 
months my tears have all been for Elzear: the last shall 
be for you. Adieu!” 

The young woman rose, still holding Raymon in her 
arms. Placing him in Dominique’s, she said, “ I give him 
to you.” Then rapidly passing her hand over her wet 
eyes, she turned toward the viscount, and said, 


LA GLACIERE. 


273 


“My father, I am ready. We will die together.” 

“ Very well, my daughter,” replied M. de Varni. 

As evening approached, Dominique told them that he 
intended to leave Avignon at nightfall, and that the time 
of departure w T as consequently come. M. de Varni, clothed 
entirely in black, stood motionless, holding his daughter- 
in-law by the hand, ’vvho, though close to him, was not far 
from Dominique, and pressed her lips for the last time on 
Raymon’s cheeks as the notary held him up to her. “ Go !” 
said she, at length, in a low tone. A little door opened, 
and Dominique disappeared with his precious burden. 

The viscount and Adrienne remained there a few minutes 
silent and plunged in grief. Suddenly they were startled 
out of their reverie by the sound of voices and steps in the 
street approaching the house, followed in an instant by a 
violent knocking at the door. 

“ Let it be opened !” said M. de Varni to the trembling 
domestics.. 

They opened it. A crowd of armed men, with bare 
breasts and bad countenances, rushed into the court and 
vestibule. There they found the viscount and Adrienne 
awaiting them, their usual calmness having returned in the 
face of danger. 

This ragged, ferocious, howling mob had for their chief 
a masked man, with a tall, athletic form, who evidently 
exerted a certain influence over his companions. 

“ Down with the papists ! the aristocrats !” shouted 
these madmen. “The brave Lescuyer, the flower of the 
patriots, has been poniarded at Cordeli£res by the anti- 
revolutionary party. For every drop of his blood we must 
have the life of one of these wretches, heretofore too often 
spared.” 

“You shall have it,” said the masked man, in a hollow 


voice. 


274 


CLOTILDE. 


“ To death with them, as wdth all the others ! To death 
with the old Varni ! He is a noble, he is a connection of 
the pope. To death with him ! ” 

The masked man went up to M. de Varni and his 
daughter-in-law, and in an imperious voice, the natural 
sound of which he seemed seeking to disguise, he said to 
them, 

“ The moment has come. You must go.” 

The two victims left the house, accompanied by that law- 
less crowd, ceaselessly vociferating cries of death. By the 
glare of the torches M. de Varni could see some of the 
bandits, who, mounted on ladders, Tvere breaking with 
hammers the escutcheon carved on the wall above the 
door. 

In the street the bloodthirsty, sullen mob was soon aug- 
mented by other bands of the same kind, also bringing 
victims. The word of command was given ; it passed from 
mouth to mouth ; and the assassination of Lescuyer, the 
secretary of the patriots, became the prelude and signal 
for the carnage those wretches had long desired and 
expected. 

They marched thus to the papal palace. On the way 
insults and curses were showered on the viscount and 
Adrienne, but they were indifferent to them. Elzear’s 
death had weaned them from the world — one, by the irre- 
mediable and boundless despair which rendered his life 
insupportable, — the other, by grief, mingled with pious 
hopes, which drew her to heaven, there to join her beloved. 

At length they reached the palace, and they were intro- 
duced into one of the saloons, which were still called, either 
in derision or from habit, the apartments of the vice- 
legate. The tribunal had already begun. They called the 
names of two women, the ladies Arnaud and Crouzet. 

Both were beautiful, and one of the two was in a 


LA GLACIERE. 


275 


situation which should have protected her from their 
outrages. What had they done to deserve death ? They 
were ignorant of their crime, and their judges knew it no 
better than themselves. They had been arrested near 
Cordelieres a few minutes after that fatal meeting at which 
the patriot Lescuyer had been murdered. 

“ To death with the two bigots !” shouted a drunken 
voice as these two women appeared before the disorderly 
tribunal. 

“ To death with the murderers of Lescuyer !” repeated a 
wicked voice. 

Jourdan, who presided at the meeting, made a sign ; the 
two women were taken to an immense staircase which led 
up to the tower of Trouillas, better known by the name of 
the Tower de la Glaci&re. The door of this stairway gaped 
darkly, like the mouth of the infernal regions, allowing 
them to pass ; a puff of damp wind bore on it a murmur 
of screams, groans and sighs. Then the mouth closed over 
the two victims, and the examination of another accused 
w r as begun. 

The next was an aged priest. White hair covered his 
venerable head; his lips seemed to smile at the judges, 
and to murmur a prayer for those who were about to kill 
him. He was the Abbe de Nolhac. 

“ The perjured priest!” was echoed from all parts of the 
room. 

These words said all ; J ourdan repeated his terrible ges- 
ture, and the Abbe de Nolhac was conducted to the stair- 
way leading to the tower. 

Alas ! I need all my courage ; my heart fails at recount- 
ing those frightful scenes. It requires some of the savage 
brutality of those who were participators to describe them. 
And why should I proceed? The archives of that awful 
night are still in existence, giving the names of one hun- 


276 


CLOTILDR 


dred and twenty victims immolated by those cannibals with 
incredible tortures — the son at his mother’s side, the wife 
in the sight of her husband, the child in the arms of the 
aged. Those who were not thrown over the high railing of 
the staircase were dragged to the full height of the tower. 
There a large hole had been made, and the victims were 
thrown in the opening, falling an immense distance, 
wounded, mutilated, bleeding, but still alive and vainly 
begging death at the hands of their tormentors, who had 
not even the cruel pity to grant this boon. 

This butchery was almost at an end when the voice of 
one of the assistants of Jourdan called for the Viscount 
Louis Raoul Etienne de Gigondas de Varni and his daugh- 
ter-in-law, Adrienne Charlotte Marie Athenais de Flassan, 
widow of Elzear de Varni. 

These names aroused a new cry of fury and hatred 
among the assistants. 

“How have such aristocrats,” said Jourdan, “escaped 
the justice of the patriots till now?” 

“Because I have protected them,” replied the masked 
man, who had not left the hall and was standing between 
the victims and judges, in that hollow voice which had 
already made the viscount shudder. 

“ And who is it that speaks ?” demanded Jourdan Coupe- 
Tete. 

The masked man stooped and murmured a few words in 
his ear, to which Jourdan answered by a sign of assent. 

“ And now,” he inquired, after a moment’s pause, “ you 
no longer protect them ?” 

“No,” answered the masked man, letting this syllable 
drop like the fall of the axe upon the block. 

“Take them away, then!” and Jourdan completed his 
command by a significant shrug of his shoulders. 

The man dragged them off ; on the fatal stairway, whose 


LA GLACIERE. 


277 


walls were reeking with blood (the marks of which can still 
be seen), they constantly tripped over heaps of dead bodies, 
the greater part of which were still breathing. Some 
ruffians, subalterns, stationed on the steps, were about to 
seize and strike the two new victims, the sight of whom 
roused them from their hideous repose. “ Do not touch 
these two criminals,” exclaimed the masked man. “ They 
are mine. Jourdan has given them to me.” 

At this name every lance was lowered. 

At the head of the stairs they found the large garret 
where the immense pit had been made. By bending over 
this pit could be seen, as in the depths of an infernal abyss 
lighted by a flame from hell, at the distance of twenty-four 
feet, arms and limbs broken from the body, faces which 
appeared severed from the heads, trunks covered with 
wounds, writhing and still moving about. It was Dante’s 
vision as painted by Michael Angelo. From time to time 
an indistinct scream, a smothered groan, issued from the 
fatal opening, like the breath of that region of death. 

“It is w T ell,” said the masked man, in a satisfied tone. 

“Monsieur,” asked Adrienne, in a firm voice, losing none 
of her dignity of manner, “ why do you not kill us imme- 
diately?” 

“Because before letting you die I have something to say 
to you both.” 

The two victims looked with surprise upon their myste- 
rious persecutor. 

“Madame de Varni,” he resumed, brusquely, “how do 
you think your husband, M. Elzear de Varni, died?” 

“ Like a brave man,” she answered, unhesitatingly. 
“ Like a loyal, brave defender of our beloved and unfortu- 
nate king; killed, fighting for this noble cause, by some 
assassin like you.” 

“ He died the death of traitors, accused of having caused 
24 


278 


CL 0 TILDE. 


the arrest of Louis XVI. On the outskirts of a woods, 
before his companions-in-arms, he was executed like a 
criminal by his own father, the Viscount de Varni, who 
knew no other way to save his shattered honor and obtain 
the alms of oblivion from an outraged general.” 

“You lie, wretch !” exclaimed Adrienne, her eyes spark- 
ling. 

“Monsieur le Viscount, tell madame whether I lie,” 
replied the masked man, coldly. 
v The viscount remained silent. Taking advantage of his 
sad silence, the masked man related to Adrienne the par- 
ticulars of the scenes at Varennes with an accuracy of 
detail and recollection which left no room for doubt. 

“Who are you?” asked M. de Varni when he ceased 
speaking, partially shaking off his stupor. 

“You shall know presently. I have still something to 
say. Madame,” continued he, “ now that we are alone, far 
from all the actors in the drama of Varennes, and under 
this funereal arch, which will keep all our secrets well, I 
can tell you that, in reality, your husband was not guilty. 
If he was suddenly overwhelmed by circumstances, it was 
because there was among M. de Varni’s companions one 
who, on informing Drouet of the flight and approach of the 
king, had said to him, ‘For this piece of information, which 
will make a great man of you, I ask but one thing ; that 
is, that you will aver that it was given you by a young 
man with light hair and brown moustache, whom you 
will see near the king’s carriage.’ Drouet kept his pro- 
mise to Darnioli.” 

, “Darnioli!” exclaimed the viscount, shuddering; “my 
steward! What had I done to him? Why this hellish 
plot? Why this fearful lie?” 

“Because, thirty-six years ago, Darnioli was called 
Claude Bioux,” said the man, unmasking. 


LA GLACIERE. 


279 


This name had no meaning to Adrienne. She gazed 
upon Claude with a mixture of terror and surprise. The 
viscount, who was completely stunned, seemed incapable of 
enduring a continuance of this horrible scene. 

“ Mercy !” cried he, in a faint voice, covering his face 
with his hands. “ If the dead leave their grave to punish 
me, let them come to me only, and spare the innocent.” 

“Monsieur,” resumed Claude, “it is to you that I now 
wish to speak. When on arriving at Hyeres, in the Oc- 
tober of 1756, a few days after"the death of Madame Clo- 
tilde de Varni, you were told that Julie, frantic with 
grief, had thrown herself in the sea, and that her lover, 
having made his escape from the galleys, and sure of being 
recaptured, had died with her, you believed it, did you not ? 
and you said to yourself, ‘ It is well ; my secrets are for 
ever protected by that most faithful of guardians, Death. 
No one will know that to obtain the hand of Mademoiselle 
Clotilde de Perne I became a forger and an assassin. No 
one will know that to gain my end I forged papers proving 
the death of Gaston de Tervaz, the young man beloved by 
Clotild,e, and to prevent her learning that I lied, I made 
my man Baptistin choke the sailor from the * Lys ’ in the 
thicket on the Phone — that Jean Peyrol, who was sent by 
Gaston to his mistress to tell her that he was still alive. 
No one will know that, two years later, to avenge myself 
on this same Gaston, to whom Madame de Varni had 
granted an interview of a few hours, I took advantage of 
an inundation of the Rhone, and planned my revenge so 
that Clotilde was forced to declare herself dishonored or let 
her lover perish, engulfed in the raging waters. No one 
will know that Claude Rioux, a poor boatman of the 
Rhone, beloved by Julie, the companion of Clotilde’s 
childhood, having, at the command of these two w'omen, 
tried to save Gaston, was arrested, at my order, as a thief, 


280 


CL 0 TILDE. 


and sentenced to five years at the galleys, and she for 
whom he had given himself up -was not permitted to say a 
word in his defence. No one will know that Madame de 
Yarni died, not from a decline, as the physicians sup- 
posed, but worn out in ten months by despair, remorse, the 
thirst for an impossible revenge. Thank Heaven, all these 
secrets are buried in the tomb! The witnesses who could 
have betrayed me have disappeared together from the world 
in which I remain. No Clotilde ! no Claude ! no Julie !’ 
Did you not reason thus, monsieur?” 

M. de Varni was silent from terror. Adrienne looked 
upon Claude with the fear inspired by supernatural visions. 

“Ha! you deceived yourself,” resumed Claude, growing 
more and more excited. “ Madame Clotilde de Varni, 
before dying, had time, to bequeath her vengeance to three 
persons. The first w T as Dominique Ermel, the notary, in 
whom you have such confidence, and to whom Clotilde left 
her fortune only on condition of his pursuing you like 
an evil genius. The second was Julie, or, if you like it 
better, monsieur, it was that Stephanie Durand who, at 
a later period, domiciled in your house in the capacity 
of a governess, was at the side of your daughter Clemen- 
tine the day when the child fell into the ravine at Maleray- 
gues. The third was the boatman of the Rhone — that was 
myself. Neither Julie nor Claude was dead, and their 
pretended suicide was but a fable invented to encourage 
your dangerous security.” 

“ Oh, this is horrible !” cried the viscount, pale with 
despair and suffering. 

“Yes, horrible as your crimes, horrible as Gaston’s 
death, as Clotilde’s agony, as Claude's suffering. Horrible ! 
for you understand all now. When Clementine fell into 
the ravine before the eyes of her mother, who could not 
survive her, it was because she was pushed over by Julie, 


LA GLACIERE. 


281 


in obedience to the dreadful voice of Clotilde. When 
Drouet denounced Elzear de Varni as a traitor who had 
betrayed the royal family, it was 'because Drouet obeyed 
the voice of Claude, who was in turn guided by Clotilde’s 
inflexible will. And this is not yet all. Clotilde did not 
wish her vengeance to end with you and your son. She 
wished that it should follow you to the third generation, 
and this very morning Dominique has taken Raymon, your 
grandson, so that the child, sheltered from the tempests 
which rage here, may live and grow for the unhappy fate 
which awaits him.” 

This last blow was the most dreadful to the viscount and 
Adrienne. On thus seeing the horizon of their despair 
enlarged, and learning that, even after their death, un- 
limited misfortunes remained for the child whom they left 
in this world, the firmness with which they were armed 
gave way, and Adrienne, in spite of all her resolution and 
pride, bowed with clasped hands before Claude. 

“Yes, madame,” said the latter, addressing her and 
pointing to M. de Yarni, “ all your troubles come from 
that man. His crimes are visited upon you, and in twenty- 
five years will be visited upon your son. Your husband, 
instead of contributing to the safety of the king and queen, 
saw them arrested before him, heard an unknown voice 
denounce him as a traitor, and died an infamous death, shot 
by his own father. That man was the cause of all. If 
your child, instead of living peacefully, shall one day see 
enemies and implacable misfortunes surround him, that 
man is still the cause. Madame, curse him !” 

But whilst he was uttering these words Adrienne had had 
time to recover her presence of mind. There was a mo- 
ment’s silence, during which she stood gazing at M. de 
Yarni with an indescribable expression, in which resent- 
ment gradually gave way to a pious grief. Then, suddenly 
24 * 


282 


CL 0 TILDE. 


throwing herself on her knees before him, “ My father, 
bless me 1” said she. 

“ Oh, my daughter, your forgiveness will save me before 
God,” answered he, pressing her hand, and at. last finding 
tears. 

This scene had excited Claude to the highest degree. 
These revelations, so long postponed, the last satisfaction 
of his vengeance, the intoxication of the carnage, these 
nocturnal murders, the shouts of the executioners, the 
groans of the dying, — all drove his soul, already inflamed 
with hatred, to frenzy. On hearing the words exchanged 
between the viscount and Adrienne he started like a 
wounded tiger, and cried, quaking with rage, 

“ Oh misery ! she forgives him ! Clotilde and Claude 
are not yet avenged. The- crimes of our enemy are blotted 
out by the tears and pardon of this angel. I alone will be 
damned!” and seizing M. de Varniwith a convulsive hand, 
he struck him with his dagger. The viscount remained 
standing, supported by Adrienne. Claude then sprang 
toward her. “ I thank you,” she said to him, with a 
heavenly smile. At the same instant streams of blood 
gushed from her swanlike throat, following the blade of 
the wretched man. 

The two victims still breathed. Claude pushed them 
toward the hole in the floor, and precipitated them into the 
yawning abyss, whence still issued groans and moans of 
agony. Then bending over this pit of death, and seeing 
M. de Varni and Adrienne still moving, “Viscount!” he 
cried, with a terrible laugh — “ viscount, remember Jean 
Peyrol and Claude, Gaston de Tervaz and Clotilde ! . . . 
Madame, it was he who killed Elzear, it is he who will kill 
your son. Do not forgive him — curse him !” 

These cries were interrupted by a mournful sound. It 
was the silver bell, the pontifical bell, which was formerly 


LA GL AC IE RE. 


283 


rung only for the consecration or death of a pope, which 
the assassins of the 26th of October had judged alone 
worthy to toll the hour of this massacre. 

“The silver bell !” said Claude, rising; “it has tolled 
their agony, now let it toll for mine. My task is finished ! 
Future vengeance is left for Jerome. I have nothing more 
to do in this world. Now for myself!” And he buried 
his dagger, still reeking with the blood of M. de Varni and 
Adrienne, up to the hilt in his heart. He had taken his 
place at the side of the opening, and as he struck he threw 
himself into the pit. 

He fell beside Adrienne and M. de Varni, who were 
lying with many other bodies. The viscount was dead, but 
Adrienne still gave signs of life, and before expiring 
Claude could hear her murmur, in a dying voice, 

“ My God, forgive alike those who kill and those who 
die, and receive me, with Elzear, in your mercy 1” 

A few seconds later the executioner and the martyr had 
mingled their latest sigh. 


PAET THIED. 


T HE narrative of M. Calixte Ermel had occupied him 
till the 7th of October; three days only remained till 
the time when, free from all engagement with the past, 
he could brave the hatred of Simon d’Arrioules, and 
reveal to Charles de Yarni all that these sad revelations 
had led him to expect. The reader has probably not 
forgotten that Charles, taken unawares by the suspicions 
of M. Denis de Beaucanteuil, and imprisoned by the order 
of this worthy magistrate in the ancient papal palace, had 
requested Calixte Ermel to mail a letter for him to Simon 
d’Arrioules and the pretended Marquise Ottavia Belperani, 
telling them of his misfortunes, and urging them to send 
him without delay the sum necessary to regain his liberty. 
The notary had kept this letter in his pocket till the time 
when he was sure that the reply could not arrive before the 
10th ; then he decided to send it, and added the following 
lines : 

“You did not anticipate, monsieur, that a chance en- 
tirely independent of my wishes, or rather the result of 
your own plans, would place M. Charles de Yarni tem- 
porarily beyond the reach of your hostile schemes. Your 
servant, thinking he was doing wonders, led him to the 
mayor’s office and Represented him as a suspicious traveller 
to an officer with more zeal than discrimination, who knew 
of nothing better to do than to throw him into prison ; my 
284 


PART THIRD. 


285 


efforts have been useless : I had no proof of the identity 
of M. de Varni, whom I had not seen for nearly fifteen 
years ; besides, I was not bound by our engagement to fur- 
nish our victim with the means to leave the prison in order 
to hasten more quickly to his destruction. 

“In three days the 10th of October will be here, the 
ninetieth anniversary of Clotilde’s death, the term assigned 
by her for the series of misfortunes of the Varni family. 
I warn you that at midnight on the 10th of October I 
shall give Charles every particular with which he ought to 
be acquainted, and consequently, in case of a later attempt 
against his safety or happiness, you will find him armed at 
all points. I advise you then to renounce this last triumph, 
without which, alas ! Clotilde’s vengeance will already be 
but too complete. 'From this moment we will be to each 
other as if we were no longer in existence, as if we had 
never lived. As for your beautiful companion, Esther 
Goujon, she will soon console herself for the desertion of 
the viscount; she is a woman, and I am sure capable of 
entrapping a duke or at least a marquis. 

“ I have the honor to be, monsieur, hoping never to see 
you again in this world, etc., etc., 

“Calixte Ermel.” 

The notary threw this letter in the post. He was careful 
to avoid for a few days longer the questions of the perplexed 
Beaucanteuil. Then, at nightfall, he returned to Charles 
de Varni (whose emotion, during the reading of these me- 
moirs, had become deeper and deeper), and he continued his 
narrative in the following words. 


I. 


THE TWO ENVELOPES. 



E will again skip over a long space of time; twenty- 


’ ' two years have passed since the death of M. de Varni 
and Madame Elzear, his daughter-in-law ; we now come to 
the year 1813. 

Several changes have taken place in this interval among 
the persons who have figured in this history and survived 
the bloody deeds of our last chapters. Where is there a 
family, even though protected by the goodness of God, 
over which twenty-two years can pass, making no breaks ? 

Antoinette Ermel, my grandmother, died in 1805, after 
an old age as tranquil and peaceful as her life; she fell 
asleep one May evening in the arms of Dominique, Agricol 
and Adeline, her eyes fixed on a crucifix, and attended by 
the cure of the parish, who declared, with tears in his 
eyes, that he had never known the slightest blemish in her 
lovely character. Thus the dearest wish of Dominique 
was granted to the end. His beloved Antoinette had lived, 
grown old, and died without dreaming that a terrible drama, 
in which she had borne a part, had been planned, acted 
and accomplished around her. 

Adeline, my mother, soon followed her to the tomb. 
Weaker in health than Antoinette, she had not passed 
through the troubles and terrors of the revolution without 
sustaining serious injury. Her father had been murdered 
in the end of that October massacre; and although the 
lonely castle of Maleraygues, buried in the midst of moun- 
tains and woods, had protected her and her family from all 


286 


THE TWO ENVEL OPES. 


287 


immediate danger, the terrible reports which were brought 
from Avignon, the murder of her father, the tragic death ' 
of M. de Varni and Adrienne, whom she dearly loved, and 
the awful accounts which fear and distance exaggerated, 
had all made upon the mind of my mother, although at 
that time she was still young, a deep and melancholy im- 
pression, which eventually shortened her life. 

The sadness with which Adeline’s death, following but a 
few years after Antoinette’s, filled our household, is easily 
understood. Overcome by the death of his wife and daugh- 
ter-indaw, Dominique wondered that God left him so long 
in this world. In 1813, the period at which our story re- 
opens, he had attained the ordinary limits of age, and yet 
his mind retained all its brilliancy. Some months previous 
he had received a letter from Jerome d’Arrioules, the son 
of Claude Rioux. Jerome, who was settled in Baveno, 
where he had married and had a son, reminded my grand- 
father of his engagement, and called upon him to take up 
the broken chain and initiate me into the secrets of the 
horrible mission I had to fulfil after him. I was then only 
twenty-five, but Dominique, who, like all men who have 
been actors in great events, had retained a mysterious sort 
of prestige, exercised an influence over me by which he 
had profited to cultivate my mind, make me prematurely 
grave, and accustom me to the idea of immediately suc- 
ceeding him in his profession. Agricol, in whom Adeline’s 
death had inspired great distaste for business and a growing 
love for solitude, had agreed with his father that the office 
should fall into my hands so soon as I had attained my 
thirtieth year. There was therefore nothing to interfere 
with the fulfilment of Dominique’s last compact with 
Claude, and the vindictive spirit of Clotilde could pass 
from my grandfather to me, merely touching Agricol Er- 
mel’s peaceful brow lightly with its wings. 


288 


CL 0 TILDE. 


You will readily believe me, monsieur, when I tell you 
* that among the recollections of my sad and lonely life 
none has left a deeper impression than that of the day 
when Dominique, then over eighty years of age, called me 
into his study, adjoining the office in which I worked in 
the capacity of second clerk, and in a voice trembling with 
emotion revealed to me the frightful secret which had 
darkened his w T hole life, and which he was forced to 
bequeath to me. Had I been less accustomed to regard 
my grandfather as a model of wisdom and goodness, had 
he not related to me this fatal history in its true, living 
colors, with that accent of conviction and terror which 
fiction cannot imitate, I should have thought that his great 
age had already led him a wanderer into the land of vis- 
ions, and the shadow of an approaching death had dulled 
his intellect. But it was impossible for me to doubt his 
■words, and cruel torments began for me, lessened only by 
the knowledge that my father had at least been spared this 
fatal inheritance, and that in devoting myself to this hor- 
rible task I would aid in ending it. The portrait of Clo- 
tilde de Varni had always hung in that study, covered by 
a large black silk curtain. Dominique drew this curtain 
and showed me that beautiful but unrelenting face, whose 
earnest expression seemed to seal in my mind the compact 
to which I had been forced to submit. Before this portrait, 
which revived all his recollections of the past, Dominique, 
the slave of his word, grateful, too, to Claude, who had 
consented to leave my father in ignorance of this compact, 
exacted of me the oath that I would never interfere with 
Jerome’s designs against the happiness of Raymon de 
Varni, and that when required I would even second them. 
Dominique Ermel’s narrative had thrown me into unutter- 
able distress. Crazed by the phantoms I suddenly saw 
losing on my path as I listened to the accents of that ven- 


THE TWO ENVELOPES. 


289 


erated voice, seeing my preconceived ideas of justice and 
injustice, of good and evil fade, driven on toward that 
awful work like an orphan who, on unexpectedly learning 
that his father died the victim of an idea or of a crime, 
feels his heart filled with the spirit of that crime or idea — 
I let my hand fall into my grandfather’s and took the oath 
required. 

Scarcely had I given Dominique Ermel this proof of 
obedience than my thoughts turned sorrowfully to the man 
who was unconsciously to be surrounded with these designs 
and dangers. 

Raymon de Yarni was then twenty-six ; he was scarce a 
year my senior, and this slight difference had been alto- 
gether forgotten as we had grown older. From the age of 
five, the period of the latest misfortunes of his family, he 
had been raised at Maleraygues, where we had shared the 
same studies and the same sports. We ran together in the 
chestnut woods which surrounded this wild habitation, and 
when the north wind would whistle through the trees, Ray- 
mon would stop dreamily and ask me if I did not like to 
hear those sounds, resembling the voices of the clouds or 
of the dead. This tendency to dreaminess increased with 
his years, and an attentive observer might soon have recog- 
nized in Raymon one of those poetical organizations so 
exquisite, yet at the same time so dangerous. 

When he was twenty he was strongly inclined to the mili- 
tary profession ; but urged by an infernal foresight, and 
unwilling that a glorious death should snatch the young 
man from his mournful fate without children to inherit his 
name or misfortunes, or that he should fall in one of those 
sublime battles with which the emperor was studding our 
history, Jerome, about this time,' had written his first letter 
to Dominique Ermel, commanding him to leave no means 
untried to turn Raymon from this profession should it enter* 
25 T 


290 


CLOTILDE. 


his mind. Dominique then told Raymon that his parents 
before dying had expressly desired that their son should 
never serve except under his lawful sovereign. 

Raymon de Yarni yielded to this last request, which was 
rendered still more sacred by the tragic events which had 
hastened the death of his parents. More enthusiastic than 
persevering, more quick to be stirred by some passing idea 
than to follow any settled plan, it was less difficult for him 
than for another to give up the realization of his earliest 
dreams. He sought forgetfulness in books, travels, a long 
sojourn in Paris, where he hoped to forget or divert the 
troubles of his heart and imagination. 

In the beginning of 1813, Raymon returned from Paris, 
where he had been for more than a year. He was sad, dis- 
contented, unhappy^ I observed that he was alternately 
dejected and gay, nervously excited and apathetic, and I 
would have been more deeply impressed by his manner had 
I not been still too young to understand the troubles and 
sicknesses of the heart. At one time he would complain of 
his uselessness, his inaction, of the cold, dull monotony of 
provincial life ; at another he declaimed against the deceit 
of the world and the folly of those who seek joys and 
pleasures unknown to the vulgar, and think to beautify 
their life with that sentiment of the infinite which cease- 
lessly torments them, and the contrast of which with the 
littlenesses and vulgarities of this world is a mournful lesson 
given by God to lead us to him. My grandfather watched 
him with attention, listened to him without replying, and 
each conversation with Raymon left him more pensive and 
preoccupied. 

It was at this time that Dominique Ermel revealed to 
me the terrible secret which he was forced to leave to me — 
Clotilde’s will and the fatal compact, the cursed task which 
••was to bind me to help to ruin Raymon’s life. It was also 


THE TWO ENVELOPES. 


291 


about this same time that my grandfather received a second 
letter from Jerome, recalling his last promise to Claude 
and reminding him that it was time to act. 

From that time I became Dominique’s private secretary, 
for, notwithstanding his great age, he was still at the head 
of his office, and allowed my father to give himself up to 
his taste for country life. One morning my grandfather 
sent for me before the usual hour; he seemed struggling 
with deep emotion ; his hand trembled as he turned over 
the papers scattered on his desk ; his face, furrowed with 
wrinkles, became alternately red and pale ; the brightness 
of life or of fever shone in his eyes, dimmed by age. He 
handed me two letters which he had just received. The 
first was as follows : 


“Alais, Nov. 4 , 1813 . 

“ Monsieur and worthy Friend : 

“ If the letter I am now writing should be regarded by 
you as a liberty, you have only your extreme kindness to 
blame, and your reputation of many years’ standing for 
wisdom, intelligence and virtue. You are not only the 
Nestor among the notaries, you are the Aristides ; and Aris- 
tides cannot take offence because we ask a favor from an 
obliging man and advice from a wise one : Aristides is too 
just! 

“ I come to facts, my worthy friend. I have an only 
daughter who is about reaching her twentieth year. It 
is seven years since I had the misfortune to lose my 
wife. My dear Valentine was then twelve years of age, and 
as she was the only thing left me in this world, I confess 
to having indulged her to an extent a true Frenchman 
would call weakness. Valentine has done just as she 
pleased, and it has been her pleasure to become a charming 
young person, very witty, somewhat literary, a good mu-* 


292 


CLOTILDE. 


sician and an excellent artist. I have been unable, not- 
withstanding my paternal authority, to prevent her reading 
Madame de Stael, Les Martyrs, Atala, Rene, and all those 
books whose heroes are more fascinating than natural. 
Thus my Valentine has become a beautiful dreamer, more 
given up to fancies than to the realities of life ; you under- 
stand that all these things are somewhat embarrassing to 
the leading man in a modest neighborhood. For this 
reason, my worthy friend, I ask your assistance. 

" I wish to marry my daughter, and here there is no 
suitable match for her; the young people whose fortunes 
and positions might suit me are generally the sons of land- 
holders in the neighborhood, great hunters, agreeable com- 
panions, gifted with estimable qualities, but devoid of the 
poetical exterior, intellectual culture and refinement of 
mind and imagination without which the husband of Val- 
entine will make her miserable, and be himself unhappy. 
Will you, then, seek for me in Avignon this romantic per- 
sonage formed to please her romantic fancy ? With a man 
who could understand her (it is a word invented by young 
ladies) Valentine will be a charming woman ; -with a vul- 
gar, uncongenial husband she would suffer torture, and I 
cannot answer for the consequences. 

“ Such is my situation ; I know that there are in Avig- 
non several wealthy young men belonging to distinguished 
families who have received brilliant educations. Among 
the number there is perhaps one who might do for my 
daughter — the orthodox Saint-Preux, the official Oswald, 
the Werther authorized by the priest and magistrate, who 
is now the object of her vague sentimental reveries. Find 
him, choose him, make me acquainted with him, and you 
will change the most perplexed of fathers to the most 
grateful of men. 

- “ Accept, monsieur and worthy friend, with my apologies 


THE TWO ENVELOPES. 


293 


and the expression of my gratitude, that of my high and 
perfect esteem. 

“The Count de Verdeilles.” 

After having read this first letter I fixed my eyes upon 
Dominique Ermel, who turned his face from mine as if he 
feared to betray his thoughts too soon. He handed me the 
second letter, couched in these terms : 

Malaucene, Nov. 4 , 1813 . 

“ My dear Monsieur Ermel : 

“A notary like yourself should he the providence of 
fathers of families. The extent of your business relations, 
the age of your office, Ihe perfect confidence you inspire for 
fifty leagues around, — all conspire to make you a man in- 
valuable in those delicate negotiations whose success de- 
pends on the experience and wisdom of the negotiator. I 
ask of you the following favor. I have a daughter to 
marry, and find no one here to suit her ; my daughter is 
eighteen, she is named Delphine, she is beautiful and she 
will be rich ; so much for the public ear. But to you, my 
dear Monsieur Ermel, I must say she causes me great anx- 
iety. My daughter has been brought up very simply; 
without being either stupid or silly, she has none of those 
brilliant qualities, none of those charms, which are gained 
at our fashionable schools. Delphine has nearly always 
lived in the country ; she understands housekeeping as well 
as and better than the wife of the Vicar of Wakefield. The 
raising of ducks, geese and chickens is no secret to her ; all 
the household linen passes through her hands, and she is to 
my cook what the emperor is to the marshals — she teaches 
him to gain battles. But of literature she knows nothing 
beyond the Journee du Chretien and the Essais de Nicolle , 
which she reads to me on Sunday evenings, and which put 
25 * 


294 


CLOTILDR 


us both to sleep ; she could not draw an ear ; and all her 
musical skill consists in playing ‘Marlborough’ on my 
grandmother’s virginal, which has not been tuned since 
Rameau’s time. 

“ From all this, my dear Monsieur Ermel, it will he easy 
for « you to understand that my daughter would be very 
unhappy with an elegant man, a dreamer accustomed to 
the pleasures and seductions of the world, who would ask 
of Delphine anything beyond the qualifications of a good 
wife and the mother of a family. She must marry a young' 
man as simple and good as herself, endowed with common 
sense enough not to expect his happiness in the visions of 
romance, and devoid of that superfluous imagination and 
intellect which is but too frequently &n embarrassment and 
a danger. You see from this the kind of son-in-law I 
desire — a man of means, plain and upright (in mortgages 
especially), who thoroughly understands the day and hour 
when he must sow his wheat and cut his hay, and who, in 
the evening, on returning from overlooking his workmen 
or overseeing his harvests, will be happy to find at home a 
fresh face, a good supper and some chubby rogues rolling 
and tossing around in emulation of each other. This is 
the sort of son-in-law I beg you to choose me, and whom I 
would gladly receive at your hands. I know there are in 
Avignon several young people still unmarried whose for- 
tunes would suit me and whose characters might be what I 
desire. Choose for me one who most resembles the portrait 
I have sketched, place me in communication with him, and 
if we succeed happily I will die with my mind at rest on 
the future of my dear Delphine. 

“ I am, dear Monsieur Ermel, yours very affectionately, 
“The Count de Malaucene.” 

After I had read these two letters, my grandfather 


THE TWO ENVELOPES. 


295 


remained a moment silent; then, as if he had overcome 
some painful emotion, he said to me gently, 

“ Calixte, sit down there and reply to the Count de Ver- 
deilles and the Count de Malauc&ne as I dictate to you. 
This is the first answer : 

Monsieur le Comte: 

“ ‘ I have read attentively the letter you have done me the 
honor to write, dated the 4th of November. After what 
you have told me of the character and tastes of your 
daughter, I think that among the young people of our 
place none will suit her better than the Viscount Raymon 
de Varni. His fortune and his birth render him one of the 
best matches in this country, and he unites, it seems to me, 
all the qualities which can ensure the happiness of your 
amiable daughter. 

“ * Accept, Monsieur le Comte, etc., etc.’ ” 

I began to fold this letter, and to write on the envelope 
the name of the Comte de Verdeilles, for I did not doubt 
that this answer was for him, and that in my grandfather’s 
eyes Raymon de Varni was the husband suited to the bril- 
liant Valentine, but M. Dominique stopped me by a ges- 
ture, and said, with increasing emotion, 

“No, Calixte, before addressing and closing the envelope, 
write the second answer : it is this : 

“‘Monsieur le Comte: 

“ * You cannot doubt the pains I take to justify your con- 
fidence in me, and to second your views in the important 
matter in regard to which you have consulted me. I have 
been guided by the wishes expressed in your letter bearing 
the date of the 4th of the present month, and after having 
duly weighed all that you do me the honor to tell me, in 


296 


CL 0 TILDE. 


respect to the character, education and tastes of your 
daughter, I have concluded that among our young men 
the one who would best suit her is M. Joseph de Bermancey. 
To the advantages of birth and fortune he unites the quali- 
ties and habits you desire in your son-in-law, and I trust 
this .choice will be such as to quiet your paternal anxiety. 

“ ‘ Accept, Monsieur le Comte, etc., etc.’ ” 

I knew M. Joseph de Bermancey. He was an excellent 
young man, honorable and upright, living in the country, 
caring little for society and enjoying in peaceful simplicity 
the realities of life. It seemed evident to me that he was 
the husband chosen by my grandfather for Mademoiselle 
Delphine de Malaucene, and once more I was about to 
take an envelope and write the address, when Dominique 
Ermel again stopped me, and gazed at me in a grave man- 
ner, as if tormented with a fatal idea which he hesitated to 
communicate to me. 

“ You can yet,” he said, in a husky voice — “ you can yet 
write the two directions on the two envelopes.” 

I wrote, “ To M. le Comte de Verdeilles, at Alais.” “ To 
M. le Comte de Malaucene, at Malaucene.” 

“ Good,” resumed my grandfather ; “ now before enclosing 
the answers in the envelopes and sealing them, read them 
over.” 

I re-read them, and guided by a miserable presentiment, 
with which the appearance and agitation of M. Dominique 
Ermel inspired me, I then remarked that the two letters, 
containing no proper names, no particular qualification, 
would answer equally well as replies either to M. de Ver- 
deilles or M. de Malaucene : it was only necessary to change 
the envelope. 

My grandfather allowed me a moment for reflection, 
then bending to my ear, he said hastily, in a low tone, 


THE TWO ENVELOPES. 


297 


“ Calixte, do you understand me V ’ 

I made a sign in the affirmative; M. Dominique left his 
study without saying another word; a few minutes later 
the two answers were sent to their different destinations, but 
the one which was addressed to M. de Verdeilles bore the 
superscription, “ To M. le Comte de Malaucene ” and the one 
which was written to M. de Malaucene was directed, “ To 
M. le Comte de Verdeilles.” 

From this time my grandfather’s health failed rapidly. 
Owing to some strange caprice, he would only be nursed 
by me, and his face became clouded whenever Agricol, his 
beloved son, entered his room. As I was his heir, the 
immediate successor in that fatal compact which had em- 
bittered his life, otherwise so calm and so pure, it seemed 
that the poor old man, fearful of giving expression in the 
delirium of fever or the visions of death to some word 
which might betray our secret, wished to have his son away 
from him, so that no hint of the compact of which he was 
forever to remain ignorant could reach his ear, even from the 
wanderings of the deathbed. When he felt himself grow- 
ing worse, my grandfather had a fancy to be carried to the 
closet adjoining his office in which he had revealed Clo- 
tilde’s will to me, and where the portrait of this unfortunate 
woman was hung. From time to time he asked me to draw 
the curtain that covered this fatal picture, and he fixed on it 
a long look expressive of tender and mournful reproach. 

On the 6th of December his dying agonies began, and 
the physician told Dominique that he could not live through 
the day. I had laid the packet of letters addressed to my 
grandfather upon the stand near his bed, as was my habit. 
Among the number were two much larger than the others, 
evidently notes of invitation. Whether mechanically or 
led by a presentiment, or rather that obstinacy common to 
aged men, who would do to the last what they have always 


298 


CLOTILDE. 


done, my grandfather took those two letters ; he had strength 
enough to open them and to glance over their contents. 
Then a groan escaped him, a slight color suffused his 
cheeks ; with his dying eyes he directed mine to the por- 
trait of Clotilde de Varni ; his lips moved, he murmured a 
few syllables the sense of which I could not catch, and an 
instant after, sinking hack on the pillow, he expired. The 
two letters had fallen on the floor, open. I picked them 
up: they were indeed two notes of invitation. The first 
read, 

“M. le Comte de Verdeilles has the honor to desire 
your presence at the marriage of Mademoiselle Valentine 
de Verdeilles, his daughter, to M. Joseph de Bermancey.” 

The second contained — 

“ M. le Comte de Malaucene has the honor to request 
your company at the marriage of Mademoiselle Delphine 
de Malaucene, his daughter, to M. le Viscount Raymon de 
Varni.”* 

* The result of the marriage of Joseph de Bermancey with Val- 
entine de Verdeilles being entirely foreign to the misfortunes of the 
Be Varni family, and in consequence only calculated to confuse this 
history, the author has made it the subject of a novel, called “Aurelie,” 
which has appeared separately in the volume entitled “Contes et 
Nouvelles.” 


II. 


IDYL. 

Y OU are doubtless astonished, monsieur, that the simple 
opinion given by a notary should have been sufficient 
to bring about the marriages of Valentine de Verdeilles 
with Joseph de Bermancey, and Delphine de Malaucene 
with Raymon de Varni. You naturally wonder how it 
was that the first intercourse between the parties most in- 
terested did not prove to M. de Malaucene that Baymon 
was not congenial to the modest Delphine, or show M. de 
Verdeilles that Joseph in no respect realized the ideal 
dreamed of by the romantic Valentine ; that Raymon and 
Valentine did not discover that neither Delphine nor 
Joseph could understand or render them happy. I might 
answer you, with the wisest poet of the wisest age, that 
truth does not always bear the semblance of truth, and 
the business of a notary, although very different from 
poetic art, here coincides with the axioms of Boileau. 
But on this occasion I need not even apologize for an 
apparent inconsistency. Who is unacquainted with the 
singular contradictions of the human heart, ever tending 
to the unknown, to ask of life something it cannot find 
in itself, to become enamored of everything that confuses 
its sentiments and dims its perceptions, to be attracted by 
contrasts and disparities, rather than by similarities and 
resemblances ? At the time those marriages were in con- 
templation, Raymon de Varni, thanks to the changes to 
which imaginative minds are subject, thought himself for 
ever cured of his poetical aspirations. He declared him- 

299 


300 


CLOTILDE. 


self converted to the realities of life. Like sailors who, 
returning from a voyage on which they had met with 
shoals, storms and shipwreck, take an oath never again to 
quit dry land, so ardent imaginations, after every cross and 
every mistake, fancy that they desire only repose, that they 
have done with romance, and have for ever sealed the pages 
of their dreams of adventure. Quick to exaggerate, they 
then take a strange pleasure in representing themselves 
candid, matter-of-fact, prosaic lovers of the fireside and 
the quiet of the home circle, like princes who, finding 
their purple mantles too heavy, are fond of disguising 
themselves as shepherds. At that time Raymon de Yarni 
was precisely in this mood. His manner, his language to 
M. de Malaucene and his daughter, were prosaic in the 
extreme, and they were too unobservant to notice the un- 
extinguished fire smouldering under these ashes. Thanks 
to the mutability which is at once the charm and danger 
of the characters of which I speak, Raymon, who found 
Delphine very beautiful, and was an ardent admirer of 
this type of maidenly simplicity, and loved the perfume of 
country life and the domestic hearth, made a marvellous 
impression on his future father-in-law. He listened with 
exemplary attention to the history of the last hoar-frost 
w r hich had nipped the mulberries, went through the even- 
ing whist without moving his brow, and gained Delpliine’s 
heart by enjoying her sweetmeats. 

In any case, the marriage took place. Seven years 
passed, and during this space of time I saw very little of 
Raymon de Varni, who nevertheless continued to confide 
to our office the management of his affairs. He first lived 
at Maleraygues, then I heard that he had gone to Paris 
with his wife ; some months after his return he wrote me 
that Madame Raymon de Varni had presented him with 
a son. M. le Viscount, that son was named Charles: it 


IDYL . 


301 


was yourself. From tliat time Raymon de Yarni never left 
Maleraygues. 

I had completed my thirtieth year. Faithful to my 
promise to my grandfather, I took my place at the head of 
the business. My father, prematurely aged, his heart 
broken by grief for the loss of his beloved Adeline, impa- 
tiently awaited the hour of retirement and repose. Once 
installed, I found I had grave and numerous matters to 
settle with M. de Varni. I felt, moreover, an irresistible 
curiosity, mingled with anxiety and remorse, each time I 
thought of Raymon’s home, and the strange fraud which 
had led to his marriage with a person for whom he was not 
destined. One fine morning, then, leaving the management 
of my affairs to my head clerk, I rendered my old servant 
dumb with astonishment by announcing an anticipated 
absence of several days; then without waiting for an invi- 
tation, which my connection with the Re Varni family and 
the detailed accounts I had to submit to Raymon rendered 
unnecessary, I set out for Maleraygues.' 

It was toward the end of September, 1820. Autumn was 
beginning to spread the treasures of her rich palette over 
the country. To a man like myself, accustomed to a 
sedentary life, to the monotonous work between the four 
walls of an office, with no prospect but the box and other 
shrubs of my little garden, the power of gazing freely on 
the landscape and breathing other odors than those of my 
dusty parchments was happiness. As soon as I had reached 
Alais I dismissed my carriage, and turned on foot into the 
cross-path which led across the mountain to Maleraygues. 
Arrived at the little hamlet of Roque-Mille, I again saw the 
scene in the midst of which part of my childhood had been 
passed, and which recalled to my mind the dreadful circum- 
stances of Clementine’s death as Dominique had related them 
to me. I perceived the Pic-des-Ch&vres in the distance, still 
26 


302 


CLOTILDE. 


studded with its groves of oaks and pines. Half a league 
lower lay Maleraygues, its front half hidden in the distance 
by the large trees which surrounded it. A thousand sad 
thoughts, a thousand melancholy fancies, assailed me, as, 
stick in hand, I followed the little path running like a 
natural cornice midway along the mountain, and bounding 
with its slender girdle that fatal abyss, the Trou-du-Renard. 
Forty years had passed since that awful scene; nothing 
before me seemed in unison with the lugubrious recollec- 
tions of the past; the morning was advancing, the balmy 
air harmonized with the purity of the sky ; nature, so 
skilful in making ruins ornamental, had thrown over the 
precipitous descent to the ravine an infinite variety of flow- 
ers ; clematis, gentians, eglantines and ropeweeds covered its 
frightful depth with a splendid carpet and graceful festoons. 
Green trees, scattered in profusion among the granite rocks 
which rise beside the pathway, enlivened those black and 
sterile masses with their elegant groups and delicate pyra- 
mids. Afar, in the valley, those light vines called virgins’ 
flax formed here and there an impalpable gauze, under 
which every tint seemed softer, every outline more harmo- 
nious. The shrill, prolonged scream of the ortolan, perched 
on some solitary oak thicket, replied to the joyous notes of 
the lark as it was lost in the azure of the sky. As I drew 
near to Maleraygues a spiral of blue smoke curling from 
the roof, a cow suddenly thrusting her curious, sleepy head 
from under a hawthorn hedge, the flight of a flock of 
pigeons alighting on the border of the meadow, completed 
the effect of this rural landscape and rendered its calm and 
repose more striking. I was within a short distance of the 
castle. Within five minutes’ walk of the building, the road 
forms an angle and turns into a park planted with double 
flowering pomegranates, mimosas, privet and mock-ebony 
trees, the last rows of which shade the steps. These shrubs 


IDYL. 


303 


had grown so large as to form a thick curtain, and the 
visitor, when at the entrance of the park, could scarcely see 
two paces ahead of him. 

But for several minutes my steps had been guided by 
confused voices, merry shouts and peals of laughter, which, 
proceeding from the depth of this pretty thicket, made me 
aware of the presence of human beings. I advanced a 
little farther, and at a turn in the path a beautiful sight 
was before me. 

Half sheltered from the sun by the climbing plants, 
which an efficient gardener had trained over a light lat- 
tice, a young woman was seated on the lower step, hold- 
ing in her lap the various articles with which to dress a 
child of three years old, who was playing near her in his 
shirt, and whom she had great trouble in keeping at her 
side. Another young woman, evidently a nurse, stood at 
the corner of the steps, and openly encouraged the gam- 
bols of the merry, intractable child, who seemed deter- 
mined to prolong the scene indefinitely. A few feet from 
him stood a beautiful spaniel, and with its tail curled and 
its nose raised, it did not for an instant take its eyes from 
olf the happy babe, who, each time they attempted to put 
a garment on him, snatched it from his mother’s hand and 
threw it from him with all his might. The dog was ex- 
pecting this. He threw himself like lightning on the arti-. 
cle, then brought it back gravely, with his head raised. 
Then the child seized the dog by the ears, and rolled over 
and over with him, one with shouts of laughter, the other 
barking with pleasure, and the teeth of the good animal 
never cutting the rosy flesh and delicate skin of his com- 
panion. This sport lasted till a word from the mother 
stopped it for a minute ; then the dog resumed his post, 
and an instant after they began again. On the top of the 
steps a man still young, in whom I instantly recognized 


304 


CLOTILDE. 


Raymon de Varni, was leaning on his gun and contem- 
plating this charming scene with an expression of the 
deepest happiness, which recalled Virgil’s Latonce taciturn 
to my mind. 

In order to avoid interrupting this maternal and infan- 
tine frolic, I had remained behind a privet; I did not 
show myself until the mother, half scolding, half caressing, 
had persuaded the child to allow his toilette to be com- 
pleted. 

As soon as I advanced Raymon recognized me ; spring- 
ing quickly down the steps, he ran toward me, pressed my 
hand, and presented me as the friend of his childhood to 
the young lady, who had risen, and was no other than 
Delphine. I then embraced the child (it was you, Mon- 
sieur le Viscount), who preferred the dog to me, but, never- 
theless, held up his fat cheeks for a kiss with a very good 
grace. Raymon and Delphine thanked me in the kindest 
manner for leaving all my business to come pass a few 
days with them. In short, at the expiration of an hour 
I was as much at home in the house as if I had never left 
it. I had come with the intention of making use of that 
quickness of observation with which I thought myself 
abundantly provided, and which early in life accustoms 
us notaries to see men assume and drop the sad mask called 
interest. 

Yet I must confess this quickness was entirely at fault 
during the whole of the first day. Raymon’s manner to 
his wife was affectionate and grave, devoid of passion, but 
full of tenderness. She seemed to feel for him a love the 
deeper that it was not shown either by eloquent words or 
expressive demonstrations, but by those mezzotints which 
accord so well with domestic happiness, and seek a sub- 
dued rather than a full light, moderation rather than 
satiety. I saw that Delphine had been careful to surround 


IDYL. 


305 


her husband with those real comforts to which delicate 
organizations are sensible, and which, by divesting domes- 
tic life of false notes, scolding tones, the grinding of. its 
wheels — all, torments to imaginative men — induces them 
gradually to renounce their dreams, and gently suppresses 
their restlessness and superfluous life. 

In short, the interior of this household was charming. 
Delphine was twenty-seven, but you scarcely would have 
thought her twenty, her freshness had been so preserved 
by her rustic life and peace of mind. Her cheeks rivalled 
the rosy and velvet skin of her child. 

Thus, as her father had written, she was neither stupid 
nor silly, but it was easily seen that the poetry of exist- 
ence was to her a closed book — an admirable defect to 
those who are acquainted with blue-stockings and Egerias ! 
Cattle, pigeons, gardens, flowers and fruits never led Del- 
phine to indulge in pastorals or poetry, but she would 
herself milk the finest of her cows to offer to her husband 
or his guests the pure, refreshing milk; her arbors bent 
under the weight of the fruits Raymon liked best; and 
having learned that Raymon had a passion for flowers, 
she took care that the beds, the grass-plots and the gardens 
should be constantly filled with the newest roses, the finest 
dahlias, the most elegant fuchsias and the sweetest geran- 
iums. The meals were exquisite; each dish, each flavor, 
every accessory, displayed that perfection so appreciated 
by epicures. For friends, for the sick, for the poor, there 
was wine of a certain grape, liquor of a certain year prop- 
erly corked and labelled, calculated to make the blood 
course more merrily through the veins, and a sworn enemy 
to blues and vapors. The coffee was never cold, the lamps 
never smoked ; did you wish for a good book, a game at 
cards or chess, a cigar, on the instant books, cards, chess- 
board, cigar and card-table were at hand. There are 
26 * TJ 


* 


306 


CLOTILDE. 


women, heroines in feeling, virtue, romance and great 
thoughts, who make the misery of their husbands in the 
most poetical manner: Delphine made the happiness of 
hers in the most prosaic. 

In the evening we walked together ; Charles followed us, 
sometimes running, sometimes carried in the arms of Pau- 
line, his nurse, with whom he kept up one of those inter- 
minable dialogues comprehensible only to mothers. The 
road leading to the village of Maleraygues is as smooth 
and pleasant as that between the castle and the Pic-des- 
Clievres is wild and rough ; we walked across the fields, 
the dry stubbles and the clover hay crackling under our 
feet. The spaniel, as faithful as he was badly disciplined, 
ran first on one side, then on the other, describing extrava- 
gant circles and chasing the birds which rose before our 
feet, then returning to Charles, whose hand disappeared 
entirely in his inoffensive mouth. No words can describe 
the calm repose of that evening ; clouds fringed with opal and 
gold were piled on the horizon, rather accompanying than 
veiling the sun ; a gentle breeze was wafted from the moun- 
tains, bearing to us the undefined perfume of distant aro- 
matic plants ; the laborers returning from the fields, some in 
coats, some on mules, others on foot and bending under their 
willow faggots, all, as they passed, saluted us with a “ Bon 
soir, monsieur et la compagnie /” which delighted the heart 
•with its frank expression of gratitude and love. It was 
one of those sweet hours when Werther himself would have 
thought it happiness to live, and Obermann would have 
felt that there is something better to do in this world than 
to complain of the fruitlessness of his dreams or to murmur 
against his Creator and his destiny. 

Having nearly reached the little village, we turned back 
toward the castle. Delphine, who was large and strong, 
wished to take Charles in her arms, but he would only allow 


IDYL. 


307 


his mother to carry him after having exchanged with her a 
long, joyful kiss. Raymon and I walked behind Madame 
de Varni. Raymon pointed silently to the charming group 
before us, the pretty head, already half asleep upon Del- 
pliine’s shoulder, its fair hair mingling with her rich curls ; 
then he said gaily and aloud, 

“My dear Calixte, are you a sportsman?” 

“ As a notary may be,” I replied, smiling — “ a sportsman 
in imagination.” 

“Well, I wish you to be one in reality to-morrow. We 
will rise at five in the morning ; Victor, my gamekeeper, 
will be on hand, and we will go hunting.” 

“ Is there game in this part of the country ?” I asked. 

“ Much, if what report says is true,” Raymon answered, 
absently. 

“How! if what report says is true? You do not know 
yourself? The sportsmen of Avignon are less humble or 
more sincere.” 

“M. Ermel,” said Delphine, joining in the conversation, 
“you must know that Raymon is inconceivably unfortu- 
nate in hunting ; he goes out every day with his gun, and 
rarely brings anything back.” 

There was an instant of silence, after which, Raymon, 
drawing nearer to me, said in a low tone, 

“ Poor Delphine does not know what game I seek in 
these fruitless rambles, from which I bring her neither hare 
nor partridge.” 

I shuddered. M. de Varni’s tone was no longer the 
same. Where was his gaiety, the enjoyment of the minute 
before ? You would have thought it the feeble echo of some 
emotion, some past dream. 

“What, then, is the mysterious game you hunt?” I in- 
quired, almost startled at my own question. 

“I hunt chimeras,” he returned, with a sad smile. 


308 


CLOTILDE. 


I looked at him : a slight agitation was betrayed in his 
countenance, but not the least trace of bitterness or re- 
morse. The thought that thus flitted across his brow 
might be recollection, — it was certainly not regret. 

At this moment we reached the castle ; Victor, thS 
keeper, was walking gravely on the terrace. 

“ Victor, we will hunt to-morrow with monsieur,” said 
Raymon to him. 

The keeper, an old invalid with a red face, eyed me 
from head to foot, and a mocking expression came into his 
face, betraying very uncomplimentary doubts of my talents. 
“Humph!” he muttered between his teeth; “if I do not 
go, I think the game will scarcely be very heavy to carry.” 

I passed a pleasant evening in conversation with Raymon 
and Delphine, and when the hour for retiring arrived, M. 
de Varni accompanied me to the apartment prepared for 
me. 

“ Adieu, till morning,” he said, offering me a wax can- 
dle ; “ we will probably kill nothing, but I will tell you of 
many things ; I will tell you why I bring back so few par- 
tridges, and in what consists the ‘chasse aux chimeres.’ ” 


III. 

LA CHASSE A UX CHIMMES. 

rjIHE next day Raymon and I were ready at five o’clock. 

The forest in which we were to hunt was called Esca- 
nourges. In the south, as there are few woods left, this 
name is given to all hills not entirely cleared. The little 
hills of Escanourges, which bordered Raymon’s estates, ex- 
tending with unequal curves from the castle to the village 
of Maleraygues, began in gentle undulations, scarce rising 
above the surface, like the waves of the ocean ; they were 
covered with belts of pines and green oaks whose growth 
had been more or less happy in proportion as they had 
been sheltered from the north wind or spared by the teeth 
of cattle. Between each knoll of higher vegetation wound 
large open vales of thyme, lavender, rosemary and thistle. 
The entire side of the hill, wdience could be seen the build- 
ings, terraces and gardens of Maleraygues, harmonized with 
the rest of the landscape ; its ascent was rather picturesque 
than abrupt, more rural than wild. But once on the top, 
the scene changed. There was nothing in . sight but im- 
mense ravines, which seemed dug by the foot of some giant 
on a night of volcanic convulsions. There, all was on the 
grandest scale, with wilder tones and ruder forms. White 
oaks rose singly or in little groups, and their black, knotty 
roots were half visible above the masses of chalky rock. 
Large trunks, broken by storms or rotted by the autumnal 
rains, were here and there thrown across the ravines, and 
served as natural bridges, over which thick tufts of bigno- 

309 


310 


CLOTILDE. 


nias and jasmines twined like gigantic serpents. An occa- 
sional path, the trace of which was lost at every step, was 
scarcely defined in the distance by the slight friction 
which had worn smooth the brown, sharp pebbles. At 
times the buzzard or the vulture might be seen hovering 
above, and finally alighting on the summits of the pyra- 
midal or needle-shaped rocks which rose here and there 
like misshapen teeth, remaining thus the motionless senti- 
nels of the solitary post. The peasants and poachers of 
Maleraygues had a. superstitious horror of the Combes 
d’Escanourges. Goats and sheep had often been lost there, 
so that it was impossible to find them ; the only game to 
be met with was the sauvagine, generic and expressive 
word, which applies equally well to the wolf or badger, to 
the fox or polecat. 

Raymon decided that we must go higher to hunt, and 
that we would remain in the groves and openings, which 
abounded, the keeper declared, in hares and partridges. 
The hunt was begun by the necessary preliminaries. The 
faithful Victor, wishing, as he said, that I should share the 
honor and the pleasure of the sport with his master, sta- 
tioned us fifty yards apart in an open place, which the part- 
ridges must no doubt have passed in going from one thicket 
to another. From time immemorial, he added, they had 
never failed there, and it was only necessary for us to know 
how to entice them out to the clearing. After having 
given the scent, whistled to the dogs and repeated his 
instructions, Victor moved proudly off with a peasant, 
whom we had brought -with us to assist him to start the 
game. He was scarcely out of sight before Raymon signed 
to me, put down his gun and game-bag and came to me. 
I followed his example, and in an instant we were again 
beside each other. 

“ I did not wish,” he said, “ to dispel poor Victor’s ilia- 


LA GHASSE AUX CLIIMERES. 


311 


sions, but the fact is, that in the place where we are no 
partridge has ever passed, to my knowledge.” 

“ Really ?” I replied, with a smile of resignation. 

“ Alas ! no, my friend ; but to console you, look around.” 

He pointed to the smiling, fertile plain at our feet. The 
sun had risen an hour since from behind the distant peaks 
of Cevennes, which stood out in bold relief against the 
horizon. The autumnal mist, which it was gradually dis- 
pelling, tinged each peak, according to its distance, with 
warmer or more hazy tints ; then disappearing before the 
rays of the sun, it lay like patches of wool over the sharp, 
pointed rocks or the marshy valleys. Through this trans- 
parent veil could be seen the different points of the land- 
scape, here the spire of the village church, there the 
narrow gable of the pigeon-house, at a greater distance the 
farm-houses scattered over the plain like white specks on 
a sheet of verdure. This picture of nature at early morn- 
ing, as fresh as the charming hour, was gradually enlivened 
by the rustic sights which completed it. After having 
contemplated it some minutes in silence, Raymon turned 
toward me and said, 

“ When I am tempted to repine at the calm monotony of 
my existence, when I feel my old fancies reviving within 
me, I come hither; I gaze on this beautiful page of the 
book of God, ever open before me ; I drink in this rural 
and holy poetry, a thousand times more lovely than that 
of the dreamers and rhymers ; then I fix my eyes on that 
little window which you see there, almost in the angle of 
the castle wall : it is the window of my son’s room. After 
that I feel stronger, and I return to the house, my pouch 
empty, but my heart satisfied.” 

“This, then,” I asked him, “is what you call ‘la chasse 
aux chim&res’?” 

“Exactly; it is in the bosom of that immortal com- 


312 


CLOTILDE. 


forter, Nature, that I come to smother the last revolts of 
my romantic imagination, the restlessness of the mind, the 
importunate promptings of vanity, the secret repinings of 
an unfulfilled destiny, which nearly made of me the most 
guilty and miserable of men. Here I feel my being 
absorbed in this great whole, the visible emanation of the 
God who protected me in spite of myself. When I have 
inhaled a few puffs of this pure air I am enabled to shake 
off those sickly fancies which weaken reason, enervate 
the will and disease the mind. Such is my hunting; it 
is unproductive, but, Ermel, you must agree that it is 
origin al.” 

It will be readily understood why these half confidences 
were touching to me, to whom they recalled that strange 
blunder, the prime cause of Raymon’s marriage to Del- 
phine. My emotion and curiosity were doubtless betrayed 
on my face, for M. de Yarni looked at me with mournful 
gravity, and added, pressing my hand, 

“ Ermel, I have not told you all.” 

“If to be worthy to hear all,” I replied, in a voice 
broken by emotion, “ it suffices to offer up fervent prayers 
for your welfare, to beseech God to guard you from the 
storms of the world and the tempests of the soul, to follow 
your career with the deepest sympathy, and to have been 
filled with joy at seeing you calm and happy with your 
dear child and your amiable companion, if it suffices to 
love you as your most devoted servant, your most af- 
fectionate brother, — speak on, Monsieur le Viscount; I 
listen.” 

Raymon cast a. look around him, then resumed : 

“ You see here all the blessings which the mercy of God 
has granted me — these fields, these hills, that beautiful sky, 
this pure air and that peaceful roof which shelters my wife 
and my son. Well, Calixte, what would you think were I 


LA CHASSE A UX GIIIM^RES. 


313 


to tell you that there lacked but a moment, a word, a flash, 
ere I should have abandoned it all ?” 

“I would bless the providence which spared you this 
eternal subject of regret and grief.” 

“ Listen, then, my friend. You may easily see that there 
is no one here in whom I can confide. I have, as far as 
possible, drawn around my life a circle which I never pass, 
because I know that outside of this circle my imagination, 
of which I am scarcely cured, would still be drawn to 
romance and adventure. I desired the domestic hearth to 
be to me, but with its indescribable tenderness and charms, 
what the cloister is to the monks — an insurmountable barrier 
to the tumults and excitements of the world. I see little of 
my neighbors ; I have no friends but the poor, the doctor 
and the priest of Malaraygues; besides, it is only to the 
friends of our childhood that we can reveal certain secrets, 
certain weaknesses of the heart. Strange thing ! it seems 
as if those who have known us innocent and pure will find 
a portion of our innocence and purity in the very faults we 
tell them of! It is, then, to you alone, Calixte, that I can 
confide this simple tale. Should I die young, my confi- 
dences may some day serve you to put ray son on his guard 
against the dangers which beset those vivid, restless imag- 
inations ever drawn toward the unknown, and which, dis- 
daining ordinary happiness and common duties, often end 
by becoming guilty and utterly miserable. You can point 
out to Charles the shoals I have escaped, and this recital 
will have all the authority of a lesson in your mouth.” 

As he said these words M. de Varni removed his hunt- 
ing attire, which he seemed determined to regard as a 
luxury. Then we seated ourselves on a gentle declivity 
where we could overlook the whole landscape, and where 
the aromatic plants perfumed our clothing and hands. An 
instant more and Raymon related what follows. 

21 


314 


CLOTILDR 


“ I will not tell you, my friend, either of my childhood or 
my youth : you have known them, and all that I could tell 
you would doubtless agree with your own impressions* 
Moreover, if I had any desire to make of myself one of 
those psychological essays which genius only should at- 
tempt, I would be met at the first step by a difficulty your 
good taste would not fail to point out to me. The -great 
poets of our age, Goethe, Byron, Chateaubriand, have 
painted with an immortal pencil that weakness, that wor- 
ship of the ideal, which is frequently merely self-adoration, 
and which you will recognize in this short history. Only 
a few days since, as if every echo of this century bore us 
the same burden of complaint in the selfsame voice, a 
young man depicted to us in melodious verses that longing 
after the infinite which must make him great, if he is not 
carried away with it, and if the beauty of his creations 
does not lead him to think himself their hero.* 

“Why have Werther, Faust, Manfred, Ken6 and the 
verses of Lamartine caused every heart to tremble, like 
the breeze which, sighing from branch to branch in a pine 
forest, sets it all quivering in a moment? It is because 
each of these books has been, so to speak, the collective 
■work of one man ; it is because the men who have written 
them, touched by a common malady, have made their 
genius the peculiar voices of the universal hymn. Now, 
what would be said of a pitiful dreamer who also felt the 
desire to write? He would be shown those grand sym- 
phonies, in which are collected and repeated every sound, 
every note breathed here and there by sick souls. Would 
you not laugh at a soldier who would give an account of 
the great army ? To him alone belongs the right to speak 
of a battle, who has gazed upon the entire field from some 
height, like an eagle. 

* The first Meditations appeared in 1826. 


LA CHASSE AUX CHIMERES. 


315 


“ I will, then, merely tell you that, when scarcely past 
my boyhood, I began to feel that strange restlessness, those 
aimless longings, that contempt of the real, the moral fever 
which, like physical fever, has its periods of rest and lan- 
guor, its chills and flushes. It was at this time that I 
wished to be a soldier. I thought that camp life, with its 
fixed duties and severe discipline, would cure me of that 
dreaminess which always hides a certain mental discon- 
tent, and that at the same time its great sights, its sublime 
and melancholy scenes, would furnish food to my unsatis- 
fied fancy. It was, you remember, the period of the heroic 
wars of the empire — the period when we were all drawn 
toward that pole where Bonaparte was beginning to make 
his history brilliant with poetry. You know, too, how I 
was prevented from yielding to my earliest wishes. I can 
still see M. Dominique Ermel, your grandfather, with his 
long white locks, his pale, sad, expressive face, taking me 
gravely by the hand and revealing to me the last prayer 
uttered by my unfortunate parents — that I should never 
serve under any masters but our legitimate princes. This 
request, which death rendered sacred, this echo of fidelity 
and despair which came to me from the sombre arch of 
Yarennes and the blood-stained walls of La Glacier e, was 
to me a command at which there was no demur. I obeyed, 
I resigned myself, I renounced the epaulette, and returned 
free and unfettered to the world of dreams and illusions, 
from which thenceforth there was nothing to protect me. 

“I tried travelling; but the man of imagination who 
seeks to lull or drown his mental agitation by physical 
exertion soon learns that this pretended remedy is merely 
a sedative; the towns, landscapes, crowds and solitudes 
which we traverse, leaving no trace of our presence, which 
we leave never to see again, which speak to us of no affec- 
tion, recall no tie to our minds, are nothing more, to tell 


316 


CLOTILDE. 


the truth, than our reveries themselves transported to the 
external world, and there retaining their free and evanes- 
cent aspect. 

“ My travels interested, they did not cure me, and about 
1811 I arrived in Paris still full of that vain anxiety which 
before consenting to enjoy life would have made of it a 
romance. 

“I was in Paris, and I was twenty-five! I can never 
forget the day of my arrival. It was the month of May ; 
a beautiful spring sun was reflected from one hundred 
thousand bayonets crowded into the court of the Tuileries 
and on the Place du Carrousel , making them shine like so 
many burning darts. One hundred thousand men had 
passed in review before Bonaparte from field to field. I 
remember the peculiar impression, a species of intoxication 
and vertigo, which this sight made upon me — the most 
imposing sight, whatever may be said to the contrary, 
which can stir the heart of man. It seemed to me that 
the drum and the martial music were echoed within me, so 
powerfully did I feel myself drawn toward those warlike 
fancies which again took possession of my soul. I leaned 
against the railing, feasting my eyes upon the picturesque 
uniforms with which this splendid army was dotted; the 
aides de camp passed me in full gallop, their plumes and 
scarfs fluttering in the wind with the rapidity of their 
motions ; the horses neighed, and sonorous commands passed 
from line to line. At the end, under the large arch which 
leads from the court to the garden of the Tuileries, I 
noticed, as at a sublime distance, a group glittering with 
gold, whose successive evolutions allowed me an occasional 
glimpse of the man who was the soul and centre of them all, 
the sovereign master of all this tumult and noise. How 
insignificant I felt myself in the midst of such greatness ! 
With what a mixture of real humility and secret vanity I 


LA 'CHASSE AUX CIIIMERES. 


317 


repined at my insignificance! What would I not have 
given to be one of the actors in that scene, one of the bril- 
liant officers on whom all eyes were fixed? and how sadly I 
thought of myself, lost in that crowd, a miserable atom 
absorbed by a ray of the sun ! It was one of the hours 
terrible to men like myself, in which they would sell them- 
selves to Satan provided he would give them part in those 
emotions, those glories, those esctasies, they see others enjoy 
while their parching lips vainly ask it. Satan appeared to 
me indeed, but in a very graceful and beautiful shape. A 
female of twenty or twenty-two had succeeded, like myself, 
in gaining a place against the railing a few steps from the 
triumphal arch in the Carrousel. In a moment, quick as 
lightning, one of the aides de camp, passing near us to 
execute an order, brushed by one of the persons around. 
As is always the case in such dense crowds, nothing more 
was required to' cause affright and disorder ; one of the 
mighty waves of this human ocean pushed my neighbor 
almost into my arms — a young woman whom I had scarcely 
noticed, and whose appearance was that of a modest 
grisette. She uttered a scream of terror; the aide, already 
at a little distance, turned in his saddle, and at the sight of 
this woman his eyes brightened with a singular expression, 
in which surprise and pride were mingled with regret at 
being unable to hasten to her. But no doubt he remem- 
bered that nothing should be allowed to interfere with dis- 
cipline, for a second after he had disappeared. 

“ Nevertheless, the fair stranger had not recovered from 
her fright ; her cheeks were pale, a tear shone in her eye, 
and she leaned involuntarily against me as if she sought a 
protector from that gross selfishness which characterizes all 
crowds. At the first glance I divined that her humble 
dress not only clothed but disguised her — that for some rea- 
son she had assumed it to conceal her real station in life. 


318 


CLOTILDE. 


It is nine years since then, and I yet tremble as I tell you 
how beautiful I thought her ! * 

“Her agitation still seemed powerful; it was easy to see 
that she was doing violence to her feelings, and that, in spite 
of the fictitious strength with which she had armed herself, 
this slight circumstance left her defenceless against the 
crowd and hei^elf. She also looked at me. Whether she 
saw what was passing in my mind, whether she was drawn 
to me, reassured by my timid young face, or whether I 
appeared to her the only gentleman to whom she could 
address herself amongst all around her, I know not, but I 
felt her pass her arm through mine, then in a trembling 
voice and a tone of modest hesitancy, she said very softly, 

“ ‘ In pity, monsieur, take me away/ 

“ Without replying I pressed the arm she had placed in 
mine, and by dint of some trouble and quickness I suc- 
ceeded in elbowing our way out. When we had passed the 
wicket and could breathe more freely, I bent down, and 
said with respectful politeness, 

“ ‘If madame will be kind enough to tell me where she 
has left her carriage, I will have the honor of escorting her 
to it/ 

“ She fixed a penetrating look upon me. ‘ Do you know 
me?’ she asked. 

“‘On my honor/ I answered, ‘I only arrived in Paris 
this morning, and till this moment, for which I would give 
my life, I have never seen you P 

“‘Then why not take me for what I am?’ she asked, 
with an affectation of brusqueness — ‘ a grisette and nothing 
more ?’ 

“ ‘ Madame, if I have deceived myself, do not punish me 
for it: it will be punishment enough when I must leave 
you/ 

“She seemed to hesitate a minute longer; then she again 


LA GRASSE AUX GHIMERES. 


319 


turned to me and said, ‘And you, monsieur, who are 
you ?’ 

“ ‘ The Viscount Raymon de Varni.’ 

“ ‘ Ah, well, you are not mistaken ; my carriage is wait- 
ing for me on the Quai Voltaire : if it is not abusing your 
kindness, wiM you take me there ?’ 

“ I drew her arm again through my own ; we crossed the 
Pont Royal without exchanging a word. On the quay we 
found a magnificent carriage with armorial bearings and 
drawn by two fine bay horses. ‘Home!’ said she to the 
footman who came to open the door for her. 

“ ‘ To the hdtel !’ shouted he to the coachman, springing 
lightly behind the carriage. 

“ The lovely stranger waved me a farewell, the equipage 
moved rapidly ofi*, and I stood on the quay as immovable 
as a statue, and wondering if all that had passed was not a 
dream. 

“ From that time I had but one thought ; my inactive 
powers, my vague longings, the restlessness of my heart, were 
all concentrated on a single image. I had not long to wait. 
A few days after I received a note couched in these words : 

“‘The Duchess of Oriniano begs M. le Viscount de 
Varni to do her the honor to pass next Tuesday evening, 
May 27, with her/ 

“ I would not, my dear Calixte, in this simple, sincere 
confidence, seek the effects and surprises of romance; I 
assure you that, knowing the Duchess of Oriniano only by 
name, and knowing her to be one of the most elegant women 
of the court, and not knowing whence this invitation could 
come, I felt a strong presentiment that this must be the 
incognita of the Place du Carrousel. I was not mistaken : 
it was she. She received me with perfect grace, and pre- 


320 


CLOTILDE. 


sented me to her father, the Marquis de Sorigny, who wel- 
comed me warmly. Madame d’Oriniano was a widow : her 
husband had been killed at Wagram. Married before she 
was sixteen, she was at the time I met her only twenty-two. 
This was all I learned that first day. 

“ To me that evening was a succession of ^motions and 
ecstasies. If the duchess had appeared to me indescribably 
beautiful when the cap of a simple workwoman covered her 
black hair, and a calico dress concealed her charming 
figure, judge how I must have felt on seeing her surrounded 
by all the pomp of her rank, in full dress, and the centre 
of a circle of admiring and attentive friends ! The poetry I 
so obstinately endeavored to bring into my life, after having 
filled my dreams with it, I found there embodied, animated, 
prodigal of smiles and glances, clothed in sovereign beauty, 
the most dazzling veil with which the ideal of poets and 
artists can envelop herself ! I was fascinated. There was 
music : the duchess sang an air from Cimarosa in one of 
those rich, slightly guttural voices to which the contralto 
notes give such magic power. Then they danced, and in 
spite of my timidity and embarrassment I claimed Madame 
d’Oriniano for a quadrille. I was so agitated that I per- 
mitted the first figures to pass without daring to address a 
word to her. To a woman accustomed to triumphs, ho- 
mage and madrigals there was doubtless something new and 
attractive in seeing herself the object of the affections of a 
very young man, affrighted at himself. The duchess looked 
at me with a sort of melancholy interest, affectionate per- 
plexity, as if a struggle was taking place in her mind 
between her natural coquetry, which urged her to chain a 
new slave to her chariot, and her kindness of heart, which 
led her to commiserate my torments and sorrows in 
advance. At last I gained courage. I began by thanking 
her for having remembered me; I asked her how she had 


LA CHASSE AUX CHIME RES. 


321 


learned my address. Smiling, she pointed to the minister of 
police, who was fluttering around the saloon, and seemed 
very attentive to her. I then alluded, in as delicate a man- 
ner as possible, to the singular details of our first meeting, 
and led by ungovernable curiosity, I was going to ask her 
motive for the strange disguise in which I had met her, 
when I felt the hand I held in mine, to execute one of the 
movements of the dance, suddenly tremble. Colonel Dau- 
brey had just been announced. I glanced at my partner, 
and to her nervous tremor I saw added the sudden paleness 
which had overspread her cheeks on the day of the review 
when she had nearly fainted in my arms. Then I looked 
attentively at the colonel, and a lover’s instinct, rather than 
my memory, recognized in him the officer who, in passing 
us on his horse, had thrown the crowd into the disorder 
which had so alarmed Madame d’Oriniano. I remarked at 
the same time that the Marquis de Sorigny, the duchess’ 
father, received M. Daubrey with a certain coolness. There 
ended my observations ; the ball had reached that point of 
physical excitement, so to speak, at which it would be 
wrong to attach too much meaning to the expression of 
voice and eyes. There was nothing in Madame d’Oriniano’s 
manner to the colonel to distinguish it from her manner 
toward all the other men around her. It requires a more 
experienced glance than that of a dreamer of twenty-five 
to discover the imperceptible symptoms by which the pref- 
erence of a woman of the world betrays itself. 

“ From that evening my fate, my future, the dreams of 
my youth, the longings of my heart, seemed for ever at 
rest. To make myself beloved by Ermance d’Oriniano 
was to me the poetical and romantic Eden in wdiich youth- 
ful imaginations fix their flowery fancies till the time ar- 
rives when they are banished by the evil demon of reality. 
I will not weary you, my friend, by repeating all the differ- 
V 


322 


CLOTILDE. 


ent phases of my love ; I should almost fear to renew it by 
telling you of it. This extinguished sentiment is in my 
heart like those faded pastels in which the eyes of affec- 
tion alone can still find some trace of the paintings. Is 
not the little I have already told you clue enough to all ? 
With scarce a tie in this world, an orphan from infancy, 
never having had any deep affection to fill my heart, nor 
any positive duty to occupy my mind, I now accepted this 
new feeling as the country to which I owed my loyalty, 
the family I had never known, the link which should 
thenceforth bind me to life. An artist’s temperament, 
moreover, is never exempt from vanity, which, whether 
acknowledged or not, accords very well with his distrust 
of himself, and to this vanity the love of Ermance held 
out ravishing prospects. What is art? Either it is the 
most miserable business or it is the quest of the ideal. 
If this quest, then, passes imperceptibly from the work into 
the life of an artist, he will become dissatisfied with that 
life, longing for that which might be — fatal discontent, 
dangerous aspiration, sister of pride in the strong man, of 
vanity in the weak. Happy, happy he who, grasping that 
fugitive ideal in the arms of the woman he loves, absorbs 
and concentrates all his longings in the unutterable ecstasy 
of two hearts whose true, undying union is consecrated by 
heaven. 

“I saw the duchess every day for more than a year. 
At first I noticed strange alternations in her receptions of 
me. Sometimes she received me with that slightly dis- 
dainful and annoyed expression which it is impossible to 
mistake; sometimes she met me with such kindness and 
courtesy that a vain man might readily have given it a 
more tender name. At the expiration of a few months her 
manner changed ; at first, for several weeks, her red eyes 
and dejection, the carelessness in her dress — which in an 


LA CIIASSE AUX CHIMERES. 


323 


elegant woman is a most unfnistakable symptom — proved 
to me that she had some secret trouble, and that she wept 
when she was alone. Her silence when I questioned her 
taught me, alas, that I was to remain in ignorance of the 
cause of those tears, and that it was not I who occasioned 
them to flow. Then her welcome became always, affection- 
ate and sad. But one cloud remained which could not 
escape a lover’s penetration : it was that Ermance wel- 
comed me more warmly whenever her father was either 
absent or inattentive, but whenever the Marquis de Sorigny, 
who appeared to take pleasure in my visits, treated me with 
any marked distinction, I immediately perceived in the 
manner of his daughter a slight constraint and coolness. 

“ Fifteen months passed thus, marked by alternate hopes 
and fears, during which time, dreading to lose for ever the 
enchanting vision which floated over the horizon of my 
dreams, in trying to detain it, I did not dare, so fearful was 
I of shattering my idol, to ask Ermance why at our first 
meeting she had been disguised as a grisette. At length I 
felt that this situation could be no longer prolonged, and 
it would be better to be crazed by joy or despair than by 
suspense. For the first time I, who had never given a 
thought to the distinctions of rank, remembered all that 
Dominique and you had told me of the antiquity of my 
family. I knew, too* through you, and thanks to you, that 
my fortune was large. It seemed to me, therefore, that in 
asking the hand of Ermance I might be importunate or 
indifferent to her, but I could not be ridiculous. One 
morning I armed myself with courage and went to her. I 
was fortunate enough to find her alone. My voice trembled 
so at the first words I addressed to her that the duchess 
immediately guessed what I had come to say. She may 
have tried to arrest the avowal on my lips : I was so agi- 
tated that I do not recollect ; but I know that after a few 


324 


CLOTILDE. 


words uttered unintelligibly, carried away* by the feeling 
which had absorbed, as it were, ray entire being, suitable 
tones came to me, the truth of ray heart vibrated in ray 
voice. Ah, that truth must have been very powerful, that 
emotion magnetic, for Ermance was touched, softened. 
She held out her hand to me and murmured in a sad, 
gentle tone : 

“‘It is a pity !’ 

“ I had not time to ask her the meaning of her vague, 
cruel words, for at that moment the door opened. A paper 
was handed to her; the duchess unfolded it, and had 
scarcely glanced at the first page before she started like 
a lioness. 

“‘Frederic is wounded!’ she exclaimed, and that cry 
revealed to me an absorbing passion — a passion I had not 
inspired. She had risen, and stood supporting herself with 
one hand on the back of her chair ; in the other she held 
the paper, which she could no longer look at. At length 
she succeeded in suppressing her anguish, in recalling her 
failing resolution ; she raised the journal to her wet eyes 
and resumed her reading ; an indescribable expression of 
joy and pride chased the first pallor from her face. ‘He 
is wounded, but he lives !’ she said to me with that ego- 
tism of love which would kill, if necessary, all that is not 
love. 

“I took the paper: it contained the account of a battle 
which I will not name, for that name, glorious for France, 
is odious to me. Colonel Frederic Daubrey had fallen 
gloriously ; he was wounded, but the surgeons gave hopes 
of his recovery. 

“ I felt a species of pleasure in replunging into my heart 
the dagger-blade which had broken there ; I questioned 
Madame d’Oriniano, and she was too much agitated to 
conceal anything from me. She told me that for two years 


LA CHASSE AUX CHIMJERES. 


325 


she had been passionately in love with Colonel Frederic 
Daubrey, but the Marquis de Sorigny, her father, had 
always opposed any idea of marriage with Frederic. 
Ermance’s union with the Duke d’Oriniano had not been 
happy, and, moreover, the marquis, formerly an emigrant, 
remembered this union with the most inveterate hatred, 
for it had been one of those which Bonaparte, then in 
the zenith of his power, had urged, almost forced, as a 
means of political and social fusion between the generals 
and the young ladies of the ancient nobility. M. de 
Sorigny, on seeing his daughter a widow at twenty, after 
a married life of only four years, which time she had spent 
in mourning over the prodigalities, absences and dangers 
of her husband, had sworn that for Ermance’s peace and 
his own he would never again permit her to marry any 
but a gentleman of old family, free from any engagement 
with the emperor. Seeing my attentions to the duchess, 
he had secretly hoped that I would be the son-in-law he 
desired. Alas ! during this time Ermance, always pure, but 
always devoted, pretended to compromise herself in order 
to overcome the obstacles which separated her from Fred- 
eric. All was clear to me — the kindness of the marquis, 
the alternations of coolness and affection with which the 
duchess had treated me, as she had seen in me a lover or 
a friend, — all, even her disguise at our first meeting. A 
few hours before the review M. de Sorigny had forbidden 
his daughter to appear at a window of the Tuileries, where 
a place had been reserved for her, and to which he knew 
Colonel Daubrey would not fail to look anxiously during 
the parade. An insane, romantic idea then entered Er- 
mance’s mind. Yielding to the desire of self-abasement be- 
fore the object of her affections, which is one of the charac- 
teristics of true love in women, the duchess, the better 
to deceive M. de Sorigny, had feigned sickness. Then she 
28 


326 


CLOTILDE. 


had procured a grisette’s dress, and in this humble disguise, 
lost in the crowd, happy in her incognito, her humble 
attire and the air of mystery and intrigue she was giving 
to an innocent action, the great lady, abandoning all but 
her beauty and her love, had come to render this strange 
homage to the man she adored. You have seen, my friend, 
the consequences of this caprice upon my heart and my 
destiny. 

“When the duchess had told me all, I rose and bade her 
farewell. In fact, I believe that she was so absorbed by 
her love, her agitation and the article in the paper that at 
that moment she had forgotten the deep, earnest passion I 
had a quarter of an hour before endeavored to paint to her. 
I had ceased to exist for her ; she smiled upon me with 
absent kindness, as if she thought I would return the next 
day. 

“ The next day I left for the south ; eight days later I 
arrived at your house, and the year following I married 
Delphine de Malauc£ne. You have learned what preceded 
my marriage : I will now relate to you what followed it. 

“ In marrying Delphine de MalaucSne I deceived myself 
neither in regard to her character nor the future which 
awaited me with her, but I thought myself for ever cured 
of my restlessness of mind and heart by the sad ending to 
my love for Ermance. At twenty-six I asked of life noth- 
ing but repose and oblivion. This is another of the strange 
vanities of men like myself; extreme in all things, from 
the moment they feel themselves powerless to realize their 
dreams and have seen their idol Shattered by some unlooked- 
for deception, they think that they cannot go too fast or 
too far in the opposite direction, and being unable to make 
themselves heroes of romance or poetry, there is nothing 
left them but to turn peasants. This sudden taste for 
actual humiliation, complete prose, is but another phase of 


LA CHASSE AUX CHIMERES. 


327 


pride. Did they accept the mediocrity of ordinary life and 
practical duty, in which lies true good sense, real honesty 
and reasonable happiness, they might be mistaken for com- 
mon men ; people might end by losing sight of their great 
superiority to the position they occupy, the part they play 
in this world ; but, in their eyes, to establish a complete 
contrast between their powers and their lives, to muffle with 
wooden shoes and leathern gaiters their romantic imagina- 
tions, is one w r ay of protesting against the injustice of fate, 
of constantly drawing a flattering parallel between what 
they are and what they might be, and of giving to their 
forced mediocrity the appearance of a voluntary abdication. 
The minds of which I speak, who are or who think them- 
selves the great intellectual aristrocrats, resemble the 
nobles; like them, they are contemptuous to the middle, 
affable to the common class. 

“ I married Delphine, then, really fancying that I was 
abdicating, and that my ideal royalty would have nothing 
further to do with my life. This self-satisfaction lent to 
my first acquaintance with Mademoiselle de Malauc&ne 
and her father a sincere eagerness, a certain frankness, by 
which they could not fail to be duped as I was duped 
myself. This union was contracted, too, with an affectionate 
cordiality, a serenity on both sides, unusual at these solemn 
moments. The first months of my marriage were not 
devoid of charms. We settled at Maleraygues, which had 
been long neglected, and I there found embellishments and 
repairs to make at every turn. These occupied me for a 
year. I planted, I sowed, I built, and during that entire 
year I succeeded tolerably well in conforming to my new 
programme, in giving my life that regularity which gradu- 
ally substitutes a certain drowsy satisfaction for its former 
unrest, and of which Ren6 said that if he believed in 
happiness he would seek it in regularity of habits. But 


328 


CLOTILDE. 


when I had completed all my operations as landlord, bota- 
nist, upholsterer and architect, I found myself one morning 
face to face with myself, and I wondered, with the first 
touch of weariness, whether I would never have anything 
else to do. It was then that I became a prey to a feeling 
formidable and dangerous to men of my character. It 
seemed to me that I would accept my fate — which, to tell 
the truth, was not very hard — contentedly, if it was in my 
power to choose any other, and that the liberty which I 
could not use would satisfy me only if within my control. 

“ Develop, my dear Calixte, the various aspects of this 
strange disposition, apply them to the regular incidents, the 
peaceful current of a life in the depths of the country, and 
you can readily understand how I lived during the three 
years which followed my marriage. Happily, one thing 
afterward made my return to common sense more easy : 
neither Delphine nor M. de Malauc^ne had suspected what 
was passing within me. How could they have suspected a 
thing of which they had no idea ? To feel anxious about 
an evil we must suppose it possible ; and certainly neither 
my wife nor her father had had their minds for a moment 
ruffled by the restlessness, the aspirations, that troubled my 
fancy, that thirst for the ideal, that desire for romantic 
emotions, by which I was tormented anew. M. de Malau- 
cene’s intelligence, although he was otherwise very just 
and reasonable, dated from 1660. For him the eighteenth 
century did not even exist, Malherbe had lived, but not 
Voltaire; in his eyes, the satire of ,Boileau on the disorder 
of Paris was the greatest poetical luxury one could enjoy; 
when he was in particularly good-liumor he re-read it in the 
evening before retiring, and invariably fell asleep before 
finishing it. As for Byron, Goethe or Chateaubriand, my 
father-in-law would have said unhesitatingly, like Chica- 
neau, ‘ Si fen connais pas un, je veux etre etrangle .’ He had 


LA CHASSE AUX CHIMERES. 


329 


in his youth heard Rousseau spoken of, but he always con- 
founded him with Jean Baptiste, and sometimes regretted 
that the author of anything as fine as the ode to the Prince 
de Lue should be wanting in respect for the archbishop 
of Paris. His daughter had inherited this happy igno- 
rance, which her fresh cheeks and liquid eyes rendered 
almost charming. When I pressed her to my bosom, seek- 
ing to arouse in her calm, chaste heart some spark of 
passion, I saw clearly that she thought me ill, and but for 
the fear of displeasing me would have felt my pulse to 
assure herself that I had no fever. When I returned from 
some of my solitary walks sad, gloomy and bearing on my 
melancholy brow the traces of my reveries, Delphine imme- 
diately imagined that I had a headache ; a quarter of an 
hour after she would bring me a large glass of ptisan, and 
in the evening bathe my brow and temples with a hand- 
kerchief saturated with eau de Cologne. But all this 
was done with such simplicity, behind all these material, 
puerile cares there was such true, such practical affection, 
that I never had the courage to repulse her or say to her, 
‘You are mistaken; the pain I suffer you cannot cure/ I 
always thanked her in a few affectionate words, and she 
would go away satisfied. 

“ This life lasted three years. In the month of Decem- 
ber, 1816, an important lawsuit forced me to go to Paris. 
I distrusted myself. I felt that if I found myself alone in 
that city, where everything excites in an imaginative man 
the feeling of revolt against a common destiny, my reveries 
and my desires would find there too dangerous food, and I 
took Delphine with me. 

“ This precaution was judicious, but in avoiding one 
danger I was exposed to another shoal. I know of no 
greater torture to a man who has lived free in Paris, obey- 
ing merely his tastes and caprices, having before him a 


330 


CLOTILDE. 


thousand distant prospects which he can tint at his will 
with the colors of his youthful imagination, than to find 
himself there again a few years later changed to a country- 
man, and wearing the peremptory orthodox yoke of mar- 
riage. The good living I enjoyed at Maleraygues, which 
Delphine excelled in maintaining, and which succeeds, 
whatever our vanity may say to the contrary, in healing 
and soothing wounds of fancy, was entirely lost in the 
inconvenient hotel to which we had come. Everything 
there was displeasing to me — the furniture, the hangings, 
the faces of the waiters. When I went out I felt myself a 
stranger to the luxury, the elegance, the civilization, in 
which I had formerly borne my part. When I met men 
whom I had. known during my first sojourn in Paris, hur- 
ried on by the new currents of their pleasure or their busi- 
ness, they passed without recognizing me. When I went 
to the play the emotions raised by the music or drama 
threw me back into a world of fancies where I was beset 
with dangers and troubles. At the accents of Cimarosa or 
of Pa6r, at the powerful voice of Talma, were rekindled in 
the desert field of my thoughts all those foolish, treacherous 
fires which the calm of the country had extinguished for 
a time. On turning my glass toward the boxes, where 
I saw the queens of the day shining in full glory, I would 
reproach myself with stupid irritation for having exiled 
myself at twenty-six from the worldly and poetical sky to 
which my tastes and dreams all drew me. When I went 
to the theatre with my wife it was still worse. Poor Del- 
phine, entirely out of place, lost in the frame so new to her 
all but her natural graces of youth and beauty. Suscep- 
tible to the deep, quick expressions made by good works or 
artists, I would wish that those magnificent passages which 
made my enthusiastic nature quiver would move Delphine, 
and establish an ideal link between her soul and mine. 


LA CHASSE AUX CHIME EES. 


331 


Her tranquillity and coldness irritated me. The simplicity 
of her questions, at which I ought to have smiled, seemed 
intolerable to me ; I would have had her appear to know 
that of which she was ignorant, or divine what she did not 
understand. On seeing the Misanthrope played, instead of 
appreciating the inimitable perfection of the character of 
Celim&ne, and the no less admirable art with which Made- 
moiselle Mars drew out all the beauties of this part, she 
asked me seriously how a woman could have the courage 
to torment such a good man. The music put her to sleep ; 
like all persons accustomed to the open air and country 
life, the crowd, the light, the noise, the heat, the late hours, 
all wearied her, and she complained of heartache or head- 
ache in the most beautiful part of the play. Her toilettes, 
too, exasperated me. At Maleraygues, where there could 
be no comparisons, and where Delphine almost always 
wore a white frock and large straw hat, I had never had 
reason to find her badly dressed; in Paris, her toilette 
offended me. True to the mistake of country people, who 
imagine that to at once attain the elegance of the Paris- 
ians, it is only necessary to purchase at the best stores a 
sufficient quantity of hats, shawls, bonnets, dresses, mantles 
and laces, my wife appeared before me transformed into a 
fashion-plate, habited in all the colors of the rainbow. 
Instead of giving her advice I was foolish enough to be 
angry, not openly, which would perhaps have been better, 
but secretly, like those vain, weak persons who employ to 
conceal their mistakes all the art they should use to cor- 
rect them. I would then feign indisposition in order to 
avoid going out with my wife, or if she noticed my moodi- 
ness, I told her it was on account of my lawsuit, which was 
going wrong. Delphine would then put hat and scarf 
under lock and key and seat herself by the fire, but those 
hours passed t£te-a-t6te in the dull, tarnished parlor of a 


332 


CLOTILDE. 


hotel, where there was nothing to enliven the conversation, 
were far from dissipating my ill-humor. After having 
fidgetted on my chair, poked the fire twenty times and 
looked at the clock as often, I would say that a walk 
would do me good ; I would take my hat and go out alone, 
happy, and at the same time provoked, at the serenity of 
my wife, who would say to me gently, ‘ Go, my friend, but 
do not stay too late/ 

“ One evening when I had just escaped in this way, barely 
keeping up appearances, chance, perhaps a secret instinct, 
guided my steps toward the Rue de Grenelle, where the 
palace of the Duchess d’Oriniano was situated. I had not 
seen the duchess since my return to Paris; I had not ap- 
prised her of my wedding ; I only knew that Colonel Fred- 
eric Daubrey having been raised to the rank of a general 
during the campaign of 1812, M. de Sorigny, Ermance’s 
father, had yielded to their wishes, and the following year 
she had married Frederic. On approaching her house I 
saw that it was lighted up, and carriages were standing at 
the door. An idea struck me, an irresistible idea, that 
having been on terms of intimacy with Ermance and her 
father for more than a year, I did not require a new intro- 
duction to enter her house. As my wife and I were to 
have gone that evening to the Italiens, I was in full dress, 
and the weather being dry and clear, I was free from mud. 
I ascended the steps, not with the feelings of other times 
(for what could I hope?), but with a species of indignation 
at my present situation which caused me to take a feverish 
joy in again retracing the footprints of the past. I was 
announced ; there were several persons present, but her 
husband was absent. She seemed happy to see me again, 
but as the heart of a woman once loved is a book we need 
only open to read in, I was not long in discovering that 
behind that hearty welcome was some hidden suffering. 


LA CIIASSE AUX CHIMERES. 


333 


Madame d’Oriniano had lost none of her beauty and sove- 
reign elegance in becoming Madame Daubrey, but her 
beauty was no longer the same. When I had first known 
her, youth and hope, the youth of the heart, beamed on her 
face. Her father’s opposition to her love for Frederic 
Daubrey had sometimes cast over this beauty and grace a 
veil of sadness, but there was in that sadness something en- 
thusiastic, energetic, the consciousness of an internal power, 
a persevering passion which must eventually triumph over 
all obstacles. Now that Ermance was the wife of the man 
she had chosen, this passionate anxiety, these alternations 
of hidden agitation and apparent calm, instead of disap- 
pearing, had changed character. Her eyes burned with an 
almost feverish fire which she vainly strove to repress. 
She looked first at the clock, then at those around her, 
then at the door of the room, as if expecting some one who 
did not appear. Her reception of me partook of this rest- 
lessness. After having received me with an expression of 
joy and exaggerated friendship, she became absent, and 
only replied by monosyllables to the words I addressed to 
her. I felt constrained to ask her if I could not see her 
husband, and to request her to present me to him. 1 Gene- 
ral Daubrey is at the play,’ she answered, dryly, and with 
a pretended indifference which I could not mistake. At 
last, toward eleven, M. Daubrey entered. An exchange of 
jests on his absence passed between the husband, the wife 
and some intimate friends, but the jests were merely on 
the tongue, the smiles died on every lip. Ermance pre- 
sented me, and half an hour later I left. 

“ That evening left an impression on me which I ought 
to have distrusted, for it encouraged all my secret weak- 
nesses. It was evident to me that Ermance was unhappy: 
her melancholy, her mistakes, were a reparation to my 
vanity. In returning to her parlor I stepped back into 


334 


CLOTILDE. 


that world, that life in Paris, from which I had felt myself 
banished, and this return was easier to me as Madame 
Daubrey was ignorant of my marriage. Then, too, I 
promised myself one of the greatest pleasures which a 
man like myself can taste — the pleasure of observation. 
I visited Ermance frequently, therefore, without speak- 
ing of it to Delphine, who was too true and too inno- 
cent to be jealous. It is true (for I would not appear 
worse than I was) that I believed myself cured of my old 
love ; I had commanded the self-esteem of which I speak to 
guard the door of my heart continually, to prevent my love 
re-entering, and I intended to visit Madame Daubrey 
merely to renew some of my former impressions, to breathe 
once more the atmosphere of civilization and elegance, and 
to create for myself a chapter of psychological romance in 
studying the respective positions of Ermance and Frederic. 
The pretension was visionary, but at that time I did not 
chase chimeras. 

“ It did not require any great insight to enable me to ana- 
lyze General Daubrey. He was simply a good officer and a 
libertinje, and in both capacities he had profited equally by 
the fall of Bonaparte and by his marriage. Judge what 
a pleasure for me, the type of that generation of dreamers 
who followed the men of action, for me, whose intellect and 
imagination were stronger than my will, to see abased and 
comparatively inferior to me one of those heroes of the battle- 
field and the boudoir, embroidery and gilding on every seam, 
loaded with glory, achievements and uniforms, who for fif- 
teen years had enjoyed the monopoly of every female pref- 
erence ! What happiness to see this Lovelace entirely out 
of place, dejected at having no more blows to deal with his 
sabre, no towns to conquer, no hearts to take by storm, not 
knowing how to pass his time, totally devoid of ideas, 
clqsed in his conjugal felicity as in a cage, and incapable 


LA CHASSE AUX CHIMERES. 


335 


of appreciating the superior woman who had given herself 
to him ! This study, the revenge of a rejected love, was 
perhaps not very criminal, but all that I ought to have 
feared took place. In order the better to study the hus- 
band, I saw the wife too frequently ; in order to ascertain 
that Frederic absented himself almost every evening, prob- 
ably to pass it behind the scenes of the theatres, or to offer 
his homage, w T eary of disuse, to some questionable beauty, I 
visited Ermance, and every day renewed my former feelings 
toward her. As I fancied myself an observer only, I did 
not fear the charms I had required years to forget, and the 
impression of which was renewed in a few hours. I resem- 
bled a self-confident coachman who boasts of being able 
to manage fiery horses because he knows the road, and yet 
does not see that his topographical knowledge does not pre- 
vent the horses becoming infuriated. 

“It was under the influence of these illusions, which 
deceived equally my conscience and heart, .that I passed 
three or four evenings ev.ery week with Ermance. She too 
was the dupe of herself. Still in love with Frederic, find- 
ing fresh food for her love in her anxieties and jealousy, 
hoping to reclaim her husband by the plan so often adopted, 
of charming the man beloved by coquetting with an indif- 
ferent person, Madame Daubrey at first merely wished to 
pique the general with this game, and to prove to him that 
her eyes and her smiles had lost none of their magic. I 
saw through this strategy, and I thought myself sufficiently 
fortified, first by my self-love, then because I felt sure of 
crossing her designs by seeing through them. Thus we 
deceived each other, having first deceived ourselves. Being 
jealous, she meant to make use of me to regain the love 
of her husband ; with my vanity I flattered myself that I 
should never become too deeply interested in this hazardous 
part, this secret drama, a drama of three, such as is often 


336 


CLOTILDE. 


played. Did this first plan which Ermance had laid for 
herself afterward become modified in her heart ? Did she 
end by feeling for me something more than the egotistical 
sentiment (for which I forgave her in advance) which caused 
her to seek in my attentions a means of awakening M. 
Daubrey’s chilled affections? Was there some wound 
behind this dangerous fencing, or did some unexpected 
spark suddenly spring from the fire with which she played ? 
I have never known, and had I known, I should wish to 
forget it. 'I remember but too well all that passed in my 
own heart — the ever-growing trouble I drew from the eyes 
of Ermance, the irresistible love which led me almost every 
evening to her door, and the miserable pretexts with which I 
excused myself when I felt I was wrong, and denied the dan- 
ger whilst I was yielding to it. Jealousy, anxiety, the tor- 
ment of a troublesome passion, perhaps surprise at a new 
feeling, gradually mingling with her grief, all gave to the 
beauty of Ermance something passionate, unexpected, poet- 
ical, which rendered it still more seducing to my powerful 
imagination. She was a thorough woman — the woman who 
personified all my dreams, with the splendid accessories of 
worldly superiority and impassioned greatness ; and when 
on leaving Ermance I returned to Delpliine with my mind 
full of her ardent looks, expressive silences, sudden brusque- 
ries, all her wealth of imagination, alternately displayed 
and veiled, scattered and hidden, and looked at the calm 
face, the placid beauty, the perfect freshness, the imper- 
turbable smile of my wife, I seemed to descend suddenly 
from the picturesque heights of Oberland to a plain of 
Beance or Brie. 

“ One evening in the month of March I had gone to 
Madame Daubrey’s and not found her at home. Discon- 
tented, irritated at the idea of returning to my gaudy hotel 
early, I let chance direct my adventurous course, and 


LA CIIASSE AUX CHIMEBES. 


337 


crossing the Pont Royal, the Place du Carrousel , which 
recalled my first meeting with Ermance, I turned into the 
Rue Richelieu, and without knowing where I was going, I 
found myself at the opera-house. It was then the last of 
the carnival, and that evening there was a masked ball. 
A ticket-vender, seeing by my appearance that I did not 
know how to spend my time, approached me and offered 
me a ticket for this ball, which he said would be the finest 
of the season ; I took it mechanically, and in a short time 
was in the midst of the crowd. 

“The ball was indeed brilliant, for there was a great 
crowd, and it was impossible to take a step without elbow- 
ing one’s way. I had scarcely entered when an indescrib- 
able sadness, a terrible weariness, seized upon me ; I wan- 
dered around the large room, looking with an absent eye 
upon its pink or black shadows. Among these dominoes, 
the greater part of them common people, whose feet and 
hands usually betrayed their doubtful rank, I was not long 
in remarking a female as much out of place as myself in 
this gay assemblage. She was alone, and replied to none 
of the challenges offered her by the other masks as they 
passed her. Extreme agitation was betrayed by her atti- 
tude, her walk, her rapid movements, as she hurried through 
the corridor and the saloon, looking right and left, hearing 
no one and never stopping. Drawn to her by some intui- 
tion, I followed her without being noticed, and I observed 
some details which doubled my curiosity. Her costume 
presented singular contrasts ,* her foot was dressed with ex- 
treme care ; her gloves, exquisitely fresh, fitted a hand of 
aristocratic elegance, but her domino of black satin, tum- 
bled, abused and put on awry, seemed to have been drawn 
hastily over her dress. By the way in which her mask, 
which fell very low, was fixed on her face, you would have 
supposed that this woman wore a mask that evening for 
29 W 


338 


CLOTILDE. 


the first time. When I drew near her, as she turned to- 
ward me I perceived, with an involuntary shudder, under 
her carefully-worn hood, the light of two brown eyes, and 
some long curls of black hair escaping over her cheeks. 

“I soon saw that she too was watching me, and without 
betraying by any sign that she wished to be accosted or 
followed, she managed not to lose sight of me. This 
strange war of observation lasted some time. At length 
the crowd which filled the saloon became a little thinned ; 
the groups became less close, circulation more easy. 
Doubtless fatigued, the female in the black domino 
threw herself on a sofa; the movement of her little 
foot upon the floor alone betrayed the emotion which tor- 
tured her. Standing in a door, I threw a last look upon 
her, without accounting to myself for the interest with 
which she had inspired me, and then turned to leave 
the ball. 

‘‘At this moment two dominoes, one w r ith a tall and 
athletic figure, the other remarkable for the lightness of 
her walk and the indolent languor of her attitudes, entered 
the saloon arm in arm. The man bent over his graceful 
partner, as if to continue a tender conversation. She lis- 
tened to him, raising herself slightly on her toes and half 
lifting her head in a position full of coquetry and grace. 
At the same time my eyes returned to the woman whom I 
had noticed on my entrance ; she had risen, and beckoned 
me to her. 

“ I approached, greatly moved ; she passed her arm 
through mine and drew me toward the corridor, saying 
quickly in a voice which she did not even seek to disguise : 

‘ I am Madame Daubrey. . . . Stop, look and stepping 
back, she pointed through the glass door to the two dom- 
inoes who had entered a few minutes before. With the 
hint given by Ermanee, I recognized her husband in the 


LA CHASSE AUX CUIMERES. 339 

tall man with the military hearing ; his companion was one 
of the celebrated dancers of that period. 

“ ‘ Look at them/ repeated Ermance, pressing my arm 
convulsively. ‘ Oh, that man, for whom I have sacrificed 
everything, to forsake me for a dancer ! What a humilia- 
tion ! What a mortification !’ and she put her handker- 
chief to her eyes, forgetting that her mask prevented her 
wiping her tears. 

“We walked for several minutes in silence, she, too 
much oppressed to be able to speak, I, greatly embarrassed 
at the part I was playing, and not knowing whether to 
rejoice in my love or suffer in my vanity. 

“ Suddenly, Madame Daubrey, leaving my arm, placed 
herself opposite me, and scanning me with a gaze which 
her mask rendered even more brilliant, said to me in a 
tone whose passion vibrated through my entire being : 

“ ‘Raymon, you love me?’ 

“ It was the first time she had called me thus ; my heart 
beat as if it would burst; in an instant I forgot all but 
Ermance, and yielding to the fascination of imagination, 
which I took for the voice of my heart, I depicted to her 
in impassioned language all that I had dreamed, felt, 
hoped, suffered. The situation was romantic ; she harmon- 
ized admirably with my cast of mind; she inspired me, 
and I believe I was eloquent. 

“ £ Oh, speak, speak on, that I may at last know the 
voice of true Jove!’ murmured Ermance, from time to 
time ; and I, proud and happy to address her in language 
which I knew Frederic had never used, myself infatuated 
with the passionate expressions which flowed from my lips, 
for that short hour I afforded Madame Daubrey the ex- 
quisite pleasure of being beloved by a poet. 

“Perhaps my excitement had been contagious, perhaps 
jealousy had crazed her. The fact is that, placing one 


340 


CLOTILDE. 


hand over my mouth, as if she felt herself burned by the 
fire of my words, she said in a low voice, 

“‘Raymon, if you will it, nothing shall separate us 
henceforth. Let us leave this world where sensitive hearts 
meet only suffering and distress. Let us go seek some soli- 
tude where the past may be forgotten and all barriers be 
lowered. Let us go ! let us fly together!’ 

“ The whirl of the ball, the successive scenes which had 
passed before me, the state of excitement to which I had 
wrought myself by my impassioned language, the distant 
prospect of love and romantic happiness, that long desired 
chimera which was now within my grasp, — all bewildered 
me ; I seized Madame Daubrey’s hand in a transport, and 
replied, 

“‘Yes, let us fly!’ 

“ ‘ But at once,’ she returned, carried away by this 
feverish excitement — ‘ at once, that the dawn of day may 
not find me in Paris. May I never see that man again ! 
No, no, Raymon, if you love me, seize this moment, as 
you value it ! Give me no time for reflection ; love me, 
only love me ! To-morrow I ask nothing more : I repeat 
it, let us fly together! Let us leave Paris within an 
hour.’ 

“ Then with that peculiar quickness, that rapidity of in- 
tuition, which accompanies extreme resolutions, we arranged 
this insane plan. It was then only midnight, and Madame 
Daubrey had no doubt that her husband would remain at 
the ball till morning. It was agreed that she should wait 
for me at her own house, whilst I should hasten to procure 
a carriage and horses to take us to the first stage. She was 
sure of her maid : with her aid she would prepare merely 
the baggage which was indispensable, wishing to take .noth- 
ing but what was strictly necessary. In the mean time, I 
was to go to the hotel and hastily put together the clothing, 


LA CHASSE AUX CIIIMEEES. 


341 


linen and money which I would require. When all was 
ready, I was to have the carriage waiting at the corner 
of the Rue Bellechasse, and I was to whistle the air from 
Cimarosa, ‘Pria che spunti ,’ under Madame Daubrey’s win- 
dows; she would come down, we would get into the car- 
riage and leave Paris by the Clarenton turnpike, and fly to 
Italy. 

“ Our plans laid, we were soon out of the opera-house. I 
accompanied Ermance to her house, then I returned with 
rapid steps. All reason, all reflection, was suspended within 
me ; I acted as if in a dream, obeying a mysterious power 
which urged me on. 

“ A few steps from my door was a cabman who was re- 
maining on foot all night on account of the carnival. I 
made my bargain with him. He promised me a travelling- 
coach, and agreed for a few louis to hire me two horses to 
take me to the first relay, and the coachman was to bring 
them back. I told him that I needed all in half an hour. 
Then I hurried home. To lock myself in my room, fill my 
trunk with the first articles which fell under my hand, to 
add some jewels which I thought might be useful to me, was 
the affair of a moment. My passport, on which my name 
was written, with my wife’s, would answer for Ermance and 
myself. I looked around to see if I had forgotten any- 
thing, and I then remembered that my money and bank 
notes were in Delphine’s room ; the intelligence with which 
she directed expenses, and my carelessness, had given us 
this habit. 

“ I then turned toward her door, walking on tip-toe ; I 
opened it softly, and entered. All in this room bespoke 
the peace and purity of the woman who occupied it ; the 
ugliness of the paper and hangings disappeared in the 
deep shadows made by my candle and the taper which was 
burning near the bed; these flickering lights only fell 


342 


CLOTILDE. 


clearly on some religious engravings we had purchased for 
Maleraygues, and which Delphine had hung temporarily 
opposite her bed. A vessel for holy water, formed of two 
angels holding between them the blessed shell, was sus- 
pended in the alcove; near it was a branch of dry box 
and a crucifix. All this I saw as through a veil, the flick- 
ering of the light alternately casting it in light or shadow. 
But the taper, motionless in its alabaster case, shed its soft, 
pale light over Delphine as she slept ; its rays played over 
the harmonious outlines of her fair face and added inex- 
pressible grace to her chaste slumbers. I stopped in the 
middle of the room, as if the fumes of intoxication were 
suddenly dissipated within me. I gazed upon that pure 
brow, I listened to that regular, peaceful breathing. Several 
minutes passed thus, but although a new light had dawned 
in my heart, I still said to myself that I had gone too far 
to retreat, that Ermance was waiting for me, that she would 
look upon me as a coward, and I had already approached 
the desk in which the money was kept when, once more 
turning my eyes on Delphine, I suddenly saw a smile of 
celestial beauty — the smile caused by a dream sent of God — 
to play on her face and part her rosy lips ; at the same 
time her lips moved, and although a scarce audible mur- 
mur escaped them, the silence of the hour enabled me to 
hear these words, 

“ * Raymon, Raymon, I think — ’ ” 

As M. de Varni repeated these words his recital was 
interrupted by the distant voice of the keeper, who shouted 
to us from the midst of a thicket, 

“ The hare ! catch the hare !” 

We hastily snatched up our guns, like schoolboys caught 
in mischief, and took our stands, whilst the rare and 
timid animal announced by the keeper passed at about 
thirty steps from us ; we all four discharged our guns almost 


LA CHASSE AUX CHIMERES. 


343 


at the same moment, but the hare only ran the faster and 
quickly disappeared in a pine thicket. 

“ What ill luck!” said M. de Varni, coldly; “that is 
the first I have seen for a year.” 

Victor ran up, lamenting our awkwardness. 

Morning was over, the dinner-hour was at hand, it was 
time to return to the castle; w T e took the road humbly, 
our dogs panting and Victor grumbling behind us. As we 
reached the last low slopes which unite the hill to the plain, 
we saw Delphine coming to meet us with her pretty child, 
who was several steps before her, running with all the 
strength of his three-year-old legs. 

“Monsieur le Viscount,” I said to Raymon, in a low 
tone, “ you have not yet finished telling me what Madame 
de Varni murmured in her sleep.” 

Instead of answering me, Raymon pointed to his child, 
who was now but a few steps from us, stretching his little 
hands out to meet us with screams of joy. 

“There!” he said to me as he took Charles in his arms; 
“ it is this which the angel of sleep permitted her to an- 
nounce to me in her dreams, and this it was that saved me.” 

Delphine came up, and we walked on together. 

“And Madame Daubrey?” I whispered to Raymon. 

“ She nurses her husband, who is crippled with rheuma- 
tism,” he answered, smiling. 

“ Messieurs,” said Madame de Varni as we reached the 
gate, “ you do not tell me of your hunt.” 

“It is because we have had a chasse aux chimlres re- 
plied Raymon, gaily, while Delphine neither understood 
nor was annoyed. 

“I do not know what game that is,” murmured the 
keeper, who was still walking behind us, “but if these 
gentlemen do not understand it better than hunting hares, 
they will never bring anything back to make the spit turn.” 


IV. 


THE LAST WORD. 

npHE reading of the last three chapters of these memoirs 
J- had occupied three evenings ; the evening of the 9th 
of October, Master Calixte Ermel, finding the moment 
drawing near when he could reveal all to Charles de 
Yarni, had made every preparation to remain with him 
till after midnight. Our friend the notary requested an 
interview of a few minutes with the estimable commis- 
sioner, and then exerted his influence with M. Denis 
Beaucanteui], who was really fond of him, and like all 
good but narrow-minded men asked nothing better than 
to be led, provided he always retained the honor of lead- 
ing. Without telling him anything concerning this his- 
tory, he assured him, on the honor of the Ermels, that 
the suspected traveller temporarily imprisoned was really 
the Viscount Charles de Yarni. He added that a special 
reason of the utmost consequence had led him to desire 
that Charles, whom he loved as his own son, should be 
momentarily shielded from a terrible danger, which ceased 
to menace him on the night of the 9th or 10th; that in 
consequence he begged Beaucanteuil not to set M. de 
Yarni free, as it was necessary for him to remain in prison 
till the next morning, but to authorize him, Calixte Ermel, 
to prolong this last evening with the prisoner beyond the 
usual hour. Beaucanteuil was stately and dignified under 
these circumstances. Although he was dying with the de- 
sire to know more, and found in the half revelations of the 
344 


THE LAST WORD. 


345 


notary food for a month’s curiosity, he merely said, like 
the soldier of Saltembanques, “It is nothing political.” 
Then on the repeated assurances which Calixte gave him, 
he made over to him the conclusion of the whole affair and 
the exclusive right to the prisoner. 

On reading to Charles the Chasse aux Chimeres, M. 
Calixte Ermel had arranged that his recital, commencing 
a little later than on other evenings, should keep him till 
nearly midnight ; in fact, he had scarcely closed his last 
page, and left M. de Varni to his reflections, than the 
first stroke of midnight sounded from the clock of Jacque- 
mart, and resounded in the heart of the notary like the 
last echo of the past for ever sinking into silence and ob- 
livion. Its first sound was still vibrating in space when, 
by a sudden movement, Calixte Ermel threw himself at 
Charles de Varni’s feet. “I understand all,” said the 
latter, offering him his hand. “Rise, my friend; I for- 
give you.” 

“No, you do not know all,” replied Calixte, retaining 
his suppliant posture and bursting into tears - “ you do not 
know all ; for in the recital I have just finished you have 
seen the Viscount Raymon de Varni, your father, restored 
to happiness and peace and the pure joys of the domestic 
hearth. During the few days I passed with him I was 
convinced that God, in permitting Delphine to reveal to 
her husband in her sleep, in the visions of a sweet dream, 
her hopes of family, had done for Raymon’s excited imagi- 
nation what he had done for the earnest heart of St. Paul 
on the road to Damascus, and from this decisive hour, 
having returned to the narrow path in which is found, 
although not romantic transports, at least peace of heart 
and conscience, M. de Varni had not been slow in feeling 
his sick mind gradually healed on the path of duty, which 
carries its reward with it. All this I could see in those 


346 


CLOTILDE. 


few short days. The charm of that household, Raymon’s 
frank gaiety, the chaste happiness smiling on Delphine’s 
ruby lips, the inexpressible content which the presence of 
their beloved child unceasingly shed around them, — all 
proved to me that M. de Yarni was saved, that the danger 
of an unequal union had ceased to exist for him, that this 
time, at least, the goodness of God had broken Clotilde’s 
will and crossed the plan laid by her sad inheritors to 
render Raymon unhappy. 

“ I had forgotten Jerome Rioux, or, if you will, Jerome 
d’Arrioules. . . .” 

“Not a word more,” cried Charles de Varni, placing 
his hand on Calixte’s mouth to interrupt the continuation 
of this last confession ; “ alone in the world, surrounded by 
dangers, followed by a hatred which may not expire at the 
period fixed by this horrible will, I have need to keep at 
least one friend. -Calixte, do you not wish me always to 
love you ?” 

“ Oh, Monsieur le Viscount !” exclaimed the notary, seiz- 
ing Charles’ hands and covering them with tears. 

“Well! I too wish to love you, and therefore I desire 
that you here end this recital, the last page of which I ought 
not to hear. I know that my father died the following year, 
killed on a hunting-party ; that grief for his death, attrib- 
uted to a simple accident, affected my poor mother’s mind, 
and, alas ! she soon followed him to the grave. I wish to 
know no more.” 

“ Oh, it is God, the God of mercy and forgiveness, who 
has put these words in your mouth,” murmured Calixte, 
his hands clasped. 

“Do you know, my friend,” resumed Charles, with an 
affectionate smile, “that, a dilletante in matters of ro- 
mance and history (two words often synonymous), I have 
not entirely lost my time in the intervals between your 


TIIE LAST WORD. 


347 


visits? and by comparing circumstances, by contrasting the 
past and the present, I have easily arrived at the follow- 
ing conclusion — that in the memoirs of a notary I had a 
danger to fear, a lesson to learn.” 

“ And to-day, October 10, 1846, to-day, when that hor- 
rible period expires of which Clotilde herself fixed the ter- 
mination, do you not feel that my first thought, my first 
word, my first gesture, must tell you : Simon d’Arrioules, 
the man who for ten years you have made your companion 
and friend, is the son of Jerome, the grandson of Claude; 
all the injuries Claude has done the grandfather, all the 
injuries Jerome has done the father, Simon wished to do 
to the son, but the tongue of the notary is loosed, and 
Calixte Ermel will not permit it.” 

“ Ah,” interrupted Charles, with a sorrowful expression, 
“ you tell me what Simon d’Arrioules is, but Ottavia Bel- 
perani ?” 

“ Ottavia Belperani is a wretched woman named Esther 
Goujon. Had you been latterly in Paris, you would be 
better acquainted with this strange race of women, whose 
scandalous sovereignty is one of the most alarming charac- 
teristics of our age. These women reign in Paris. Idols 
of elegance and pleasure, painted divinities whose heart 
alone is marble,* they see at their feet the favorites of 
birth and fortune ; that which they would think too hand- 
some for their wives or their sisters they scarcely find 
sufficient to satisfy the passing whim of these daughters 
of Bohemia, who are born in a porter’s lodge and die in 
the bed of a hospital. When a novelty played in the the- 
atre is exciting the public curiosity, these creatures must 
be the foremost, and appear the first evening in a front 
seat, their bold brows bent over a large bouquet, to ap- 

* These pages were written in 1849, as can be seen in the first 
edition. 


348 


CLOTILDE. 


plaud with their impure hands the genius and glory of the 
past. Does Rossini or Auber write some charming melody, 
it is that the refrain, like a balmy breeze, may reach the 
ears of these women. They dress in the latest fashion; 
what a duchess would hesitate for six months before buying, 
they would purchase in an evening. That which a pure, 
true love could not obtain they gain by a look, a smile. 
To them to turn a happy home into a hell, to make a fool 
of a man of talent, a child of a statesman, a beggar of a 
millionaire, a person of importance of an idiot, is but the 
work of an evening. How many tears they have caused ! 
How many lovely young girls a thousand times more beau- 
tiful than these painted and perfumed dolls have seen their 
lovers’ eyes turned from them, and have been unable to 
discover why those eyes, vitiated by vice, could no longer 
find them beautiful ! How many destinies lost in a day ! 
What fortunes squandered in an hour! What disgraces 
and ruins forced to seek concealment in the cold shade of 
some small town, or the drudgery of some pitiful occupa- 
tion ! And all this because Rosalinde appeared at the 
opera yesterday with pearls, and Frisette wishes to wear 
diamonds to-day; because Stenia drove yesterday in her 
coupee two horses worth six thousand francs, and Laurette 
wishes this morning four horses worth ten thousand in her 
calash ; because Aspasia has her boudoir furnished with 
brocatelle, Ninon wishes hers in satin du chine; or rather 
because men are cowards, simpletons, wanting in mind and 
heart, and can love only those who deceive or ruin them, 
and who we need only know to understand the eternal 
fortune of despots and courtesans.” 

“And Ottavia is one of these women!” said Charles, 
endeavoring to repress a tear which hung on his lashes in 
spite of his efforts. 

“Not Ottavia,” answered Calixte Ermel, “but Esther 


THE LAST WORD. 


349 


Goujon, the most depraved, the most dangerous, of these 
women. ... For among them are some who are con- 
tented to toy carelessly with all that caprice or vanity 
lavishes upon them, but there are others — and Esther is of 
the number — who are not satisfied with being richer, more 
flattered, more beloved than virtuous women, but seek to 
take revenge on them for the regal and gilded contempt 
against which they struggle in the midst of their splendid 
mire. The world gives them everything but respect, and 
this one reservation envenoms and arms them against all 
society. Leaders in silk robes, they lie in wait at the turn- 
ing of every path of vice to shatter the honor of families, 
the peace of husbands, the bonds of sympathy ! They too 
have their tax on letters, higher than our postman’s — so 
much for this confidential paper ; so much for this public 
bulletin, which shows that Cato frequents a suspected 
house; so much for that page blotted with tears, which 
would inform you that Cornelia had her day of weakness ! 
You see, these women have two aims for their industry ; 
they speculate at the same time on their ignominy and 
that of their adorers, and in truth it is hard to tell which 
of these two lucrative mines is the most inexhaustible. 
Such, Monsieur le Viscount, is Esther Goujon : do you still 
regret her ?” 

“ Ah ! I do not regret her,” said Charles, in a tone of 
deep dejection ; “ I do not regret the woman you picture to 
me, but her whom I have loved ! For me Ottavia lives. 
That charming vision which appeared to me in the solitude 
of my heart, the melancholy heroine of my romance, I 
cannot yet imagine her the debased creature concealed 
under such features ; I see her as my evil genius has shown 
her to me, enlivening by her modest, downcast looks the 
sublime landscapes of Oberland, her beautiful hair waving 
in the morning air, and in the narrow mountain paths 
30 


350 


CLOTILDE. 


where we walked side by side, caressing ray moist brow 
with their silken tresses! I see her climbing with the 
boldness of a man those peaks half lost in the snow, and 
in the evening, when we returned to the cool valleys, look- 
ing at the reflection of her poetical face in the clear waves 
of the lakes, repeating in her melodious voice the refrain 
of the guide or the shepherd. Ah, yes, that vision is ever 
here; that dream is not effaced. I do not know Esther 
Goujon, I cannot consent to see the Ottavia I have loved 
disappear and be lost in that contemptible picture. Otta- 
via, while you were speaking to me, died to my heart; it 
is not a courtesan I regret, it is a death I deplore !” 

And unable to restrain his grief, M. de Yarni fell back in 
his chair, allowing the tears he had long restrained to flow 
freely. 

Calixte Ermel watched him for several minutes without 
breaking this afflicting silence ; then taking his hand wish 
affectionate deference, 

“Monsieur le Viscount,” he said, gently, “remember 
that you are but thirty, that at your age the loss of a 
dream, however sweet it may have been, is not irreparable ; 
that your noble and' unhappy father has given you an ex- 
ample of the power of the real duties of life over the fas- 
cinations of a romantic imagination.” 

“ Alas ! I submit,” replied Charles, trying to shake off 
his dejection; “but how can I fill the frightful void sud- 
denly made in my heart ? How can I replace the model I 
must now take from its pedestal to trample it in the dust?” 

“ Man,” said the notary, his words assuming an accent 
of authority, “ can make everything in this world of use, 
even grief ; there is no void in the heart w'hich cannot be 
filled, and no one has the right to speak of the irreparable 
while there is so much good to do, so many unfortunates to 
console !” 


THE LAST WORD . 


351 


“You speak the truth, my friend, I am sure, but I have 
never given all this a thought. I am an honest gipsy, de- 
prived from my infancy of the ordinary ties of life. I have 
never known misfortune except through the beggars who 
asked of me a penny, the ragged little urchins who hung 
around the doors of the diligences as I crossed some strange 
village. I am bound to nothing, I am alone in the world, 
and with the exception of yourself, whom I must leave 
to-morrow, there is none to bind me to life by a feeling of 
duty, sadness or joy.” 

“ And why leave me to-morrow ?” asked Calixte Ermel. 
“ Deign to hear me but an instant longer. From this day 
your life wears a new face; as we have been laboring, 
both you and I, under the weight of this terrible succession 
which, while it threatened you with hereditary misfortunes, 
placed me at the commands of your persecutor, I have felt 
it my duty to neglect no step to sunder every tie which 
could have brought you back to a country where your 
family had suffered so much. I encouraged in every way 
the taste for liberty and travelling which appeared to me 
calculated to thwart your future destiny. Judge of my 
despair when Simon d’Arrioules made his appearance, and 
I learned of your arrival, and by a diabolical plot I saw 
this new abyss open under our feet at the very moment 
we had reached the time fixed by Clotilde, when I would 
at last be free to break and annihilate the compact which 
condemned us both, you as a victim, I as a slave ! Thanks 
to Heaven and my friend Beaucanteuil, the worthy commis- 
sioner who felt it his duty to have you sent to prison, it 
has been in my power, without disobeying Simon d’Arri- 
oules, to remain neutral between Beaucanteuil and your- 
self, to let you groan behind bolts till the day of deliver- 
ance, and so turn aside this last danger. Now, thank God ! 
we both escape the cruel situation which permitted me to 


352 


CL 0 TILDE. 


give you no other proof of my friendship than to send you 
from me ; and if you will allow me to retain this valued 
friendship, if you will consent to accept me as adviser 
and guide, oh, monsieur, with what affection will the poor 
notary devote himself to you! He has so much evil to 
repair, his only wish, his only happiness, his latest joy, 
would be to bring into your existence as many happy days 
as there are sombre pages in the detested past ! Y6s, may 
God enable me at last to yield to the desire to love you, to 
make you happy, which has so long tortured me! Would 
he but permit me to serve you as many times as I have 
prayed for you, I w T ould die comforted !” 

“Thanks, my friend,” answered Charles, pressing the 
notary’s hands cordially, “ thanks ! I accept your affection 
as my shield and my hope in this world. Tell me what I 
must do, and although I am, I fear, but a poor scholar in 
the science of common sense, I can at least answer for my 
good-will.” 

“First,” resumed Calixte Ermel, “I would beg you to 
gain an exact knowledge of your fortune ; I have brought 
with me all the papers, all the deeds, relating to it. I think 
that neither you nor I, after the emotions of this evening, 
have any desire to sleep, and Beaucanteuil has given me 
permission to remain with you for any length of time. If 
agreeable to you, we will watch together till morning, and 
at the break of day we will both leave this prison, for you 
must know, monsieur, that, now that your captivity is use- 
less to me, it is at an end !” 

“Very well, my friend, I listen.” 

Charles lit a cigar ; the notary unfolded new documents. 

“ These,” said he, smiling, “ are the true memoirs of a 
notary, for they are arithmetical calculations.” 

“ Stop, my friend: am I Very rich?” asked M. de Varni, 
with great indifference. 


THE LAST WORD. 


353 


“ Ah,” replied Calixte Ermel, “ the great revolution of 
’89 prevented that. At that time all the possessions of 
your family had been confiscated. In 1822, after ‘the 
misfortunes which made you an orphan, I sold the castles 
and domains of Maleraygues and Tavelay, which we had 
succeeded in saving from the clutches of the revolution, 
also some scattered estates which you possessed on the 
banks of the Rhone.” 

“ And you have made out of all?’' inquired M. de Yarni, 
with the same indifference. 

“ Eight hundred thousand francs. Land did not sell as 
well then as it does now.” 

“ Eight hundred thousand francs ! Do you know that is 
magnificent?” exclaimed Charles, astonished. “According 
to this calculation, my friend, and if arithmetic, as Gil 
Bias said, is a certain science, I should have an income of 
about forty thousand livres!” 

“Oh, you have a little more,” replied Calixte Ermel, 
modestly, with the smile of a man happy to return to his 
specialty. “ First, I have not always sent you your^entire 
income; then in 1826 I purchased some three per cents, 
which I resold at a good time. I believe, too, that I have 
been tolerably successful with railroad stocks, fascinating 
and dangerous as they are. I held some in the Marseilles 
and Orleans, which I have sold with considerable profit. 
In short, Monsieur le Viscount, as my books show and we 
will prove, you have at this time one hundred thousand 
livres income, a little more than your ancestors have ever 
had.” 

“ Oh, my friend, thanks ! I am dazzled ! We will turn 
into Pere Grandet, to Monte Christo. But good heavens ! 
what shall I do with all this money ? It may at least 
serve to divert me. In place of happiness it may purchase 
me oblivion. Let us see : I will go to Paris ; I will have 
30 * X 


354 


CLOTILDE. 


a house built which I will plan according to my fancy, I 
will have a box in the Italiens, race-horses, my stall in the 
operra ; I will give dinners twice a w«ek to artists and men 
of talent and conversational powers. Alas ! what do I say ? 
Poor fool ! Can all this give me back what I have lost ? 
What is this wealth, this splendor, this excitement, these 
pleasures? Not even the ghost of the dream which has 
vanished, not a tithe of the treasure which leaves my heart. ,, 

As he uttered these words Charles’ eyes met those of 
Calixte Ermel ; they were fixed upon him with a sad ex- 
pression. 

“ Pardon,” resumed M. de Varni ; “ I am already for- 
getting your first lesson. I speak to you of excitement 
and vain and ruinous pleasures; there are other things, 
are there not? You have told me of them.” 

“Yes, Monsieur le Viscount : I would like to see you 
repurchase one of your estates. Not the demesne of Mal- 
eraygues, peopled with the ghosts of the past and lately 
ravaged by the black band, but Tavelay, that cheerful place 
whicl^lias never been the scene of any of the awful events 
of this history. I know that the present proprietor is dis- 
posed to sell, if he could sell to advantage, and we could 
expend our little savings in that way without inconveni- 
ence.” 

“ Well, so be it : we will purchase Tavelay.” 

“ That is not all, Monsieur le Viscount,” continued the 
notary, in a graver tone ; “ if you think with me that in 
order to drown grief there is nothing sweeter or more 
powerful than to do good, I have another thing to propose 
to you.” 

“Let us hear it, my dear notary; speak, I am all atten- 
tion.” 

“ Among the various stocks of which your fortune is at 
present composed, there is a sum of eighty thousand francs, 


THE LAST WORD. 


355 


which in spite of all my experience I must confess to hav- 
ing compromised. The affair is a little romance which is 
worth relating to you. I had a friend several years my 
senior, a merchant in Saint Tropez ; he was named Lazare 
Dunoyer. Lazare’s uprightness and commercial wisdom 
were known throughout all Provence ; in 1841, one of his 
neighbors, an old captain of a merchant-vessel, died, leav- 
ing him the charge of his only daughter, Ludovise, then 
scarcely seventeen. Ludovise was beautiful and pious, 
with a charming mind and character, and although my 
friend Lazare was forty years older than his ward, it was 
not long before he loved her too dearly for a man of 
his age, devoted to accounts. At that time I made a 
trip to Saint Tropez, and I found Dunoyer a prey to ter- 
rible perplexity. He had just met with several ^successive 
losses, in consequence of which he found himself in debt 
for a sum of eighty thousand francs, which he found he 
could not pay when it became due. His mercantile honor 
tingled in his veins at the mere idea of this misfortune. 
Lazare had a relative who, confident of the energy of my 
friend, sure that he would come out of his troubles richer 
than ever, offered to lend him the eighty thousand francs. 
But this relative, who was avaricious, and whose family was 
large, had become suspicious of Dunoyer’ s friendship for 
Ludovise; he exacted that this young girl should be imme- 
diately sent to Paris, to be teacher or under-teacher in a 
boarding-school, that Lazare should promise never to see 
her again, and that he would make over to his cousin all 
his property, present, past or future. Such was his situa- 
tion when I arrived in Saint Tropez. Dunoyer confided to 
me all his troubles; he confessed to me that his despair 
would be mortal and irremediable if he was forced to give 
up Ludovise, the tardy ray of love and joy which promised 
a sweet, solacing light to his age. I had just drawn from 


356 


CLOTILDE. 


the books, with considerable profit, a sum of forty thousand 
francs yearly, making part of your fortune. I believed it 
sure that, lent to Lazare, this money would be in good 
hands, it would spare him great grief, and secure an exist- 
ence to the poor orphan. Monsieur le Viscount, what 
would you have done in my place?’’ 

“You ask me? I would have given the eighty thousand 
francs, and a hundred thousand more had it been ne- 
cessary !” 

“Oh, I was not quite so magnificent!” resumed Calixte 
Ermel, smiling ; “ but at last I lent, obtaining good securi- 
ties, the sum Lazare required, and a few months after he 
married Ludovise. Alas! neither our money nor his mar- 
riage could bring him happiness ; in spite of prodigies of 
activity and forethought, despite all the chances in his 
favor, his affairs went from bad to worse, and Dunoyer died 
last year, worn out by the unequal struggle against ad- 
versity.” 

“ And Ludovise?” 

“ Her conduct was admirable : she began by renouncing 
every advantage which Lazare had secured to her in their 
marriage contract; she sold, to the very last, all the jewels 
he had given her at their wedding. The estates he left have 
happily found rich purchasers ; in a word, all the creditors 
of the Dunoyer firm have been wholly paid, you alone ex- 
cepted ; there remains to Ludovise a little house on the banks 
of the sea, left her by her father, to which she has retired 
since the death of her husband. This house is modest but 
charming. Sheltered from the north wind by a terraced 
hill, planted with pomegranate and mastic trees, ttare is a 
fine view of the sky and the sea, whose double azure is 
united in the distance by the mists of the horzion. Thanks 
to the invariable mildness of the climate, orange and 
citron trees grow in the open air. Several acres of vines 


THE LAST WORD. 


357 


wreathe the verdant slope which this humble house over- 
looks, and the bold top of a palm tree, a native of that 
happy shore, stands out against the blue expanse of air 
and sky. It seems that an old Englishman, a splenetic 
millionaire, has taken a fancy to this place, and Ludovise, 
hoping to realize from^ it a sum equal to that which she 
owes us, had determined to sell this charming home and to 
repair to Paris, where she can support herself by her re- 
markable talent as a landscape painter. But from her last 
letters I see that it is not without sadness and heart- 
rending — ” 

“ Quick, my friend, a pen !” interrupted M. de Yarni, 
deeply moved. 

“ What are you going to do ?” 

“ You will see.” 

And Charles wrote on a sheet of paper : 

“ I, the undersigned, acknowledge the receipt of the sum 
of eighty thousand francs from the widow Madame Duno- 
yer, the whole and entire sum, capital and interest, which 
was due me on the part of Lazare Dunoyer. Receipted at 
Avignon, October 10, 1846.” 

Charles was about to sign this receipt and put it in an 
envelope, when Calixte Ermel, who had been reading over 
his shoulder as he wrote, took his hand, and pressing it, 
said to him, 

“ It is good, very good, but Madame Dunoyer will not 
accept it.” 

M. de Yarni looked at him a moment in surprise, then * 
said, tearing up the paper, 

“ Ah, it is true ; you are right, ever right. I am a brute, 
or rather an idiot. Poor woman ! Wishing to oblige her, 

I would have outraged every sensibility of her heart!” 


358 


CLOTILDE. 


He meditated for several minutes, then wrote the follow- 
ing letter : 

“ Madame : 

“ If we were not both orphans, if I had been happy enough 
to retain my mother, or if yours were still alive, I would 
beg you, in the name of one of these sainted women, not to 
refuse the favor I am about to ask of you. M. Calixte 
Ermel, my friend and yours, in giving me an account of a 
fortune which appears to me very large and embarrassing, 
as I have no one with whom to share it, tells me of a debt 
which establishes some common interests between us. Allow 
me, I beg you, to postpone for a year the separation of 
these interests. In consequence of various circumstances 
my fortune is all in stocks, and I dream of acquiring, not 
a large, proud castle, where my solitude would alarm me, 
but a shelter where I can seek repose when I shall have 
become weary of travelling and of the agitations of my life. 
I have a passion for southern lands, especially when washed 
by the sea. It seems to me that the ocean sympathizes 
with all sorrows and the sun softens all grief. Will you, 
then, henceforth regard me as the purchaser of that pretty 
place near Saint Tropez of which M. Ermel has told me ? 
I would ask you only to remain in it till the month of 
October next. I could not occupy it before that time, having 
in contemplation a tour in America which is to complete 
my Odyssey. You will readily understand, I am sure, how 
much that charming house and its pretty garden where the 
lemons grow will lose by being uninhabited all that time. 
If you refuse me, I shall think you do not love those beau- 
tiful flowers, those balmy thickets, those wreaths of vines 
and creepers, which Would perish without your care. On 
my return we will settle our accounts, and see which of us 
is creditor or debtor. In the mean time, as I am as grasping 


THE LAST WORD. 


359 


as M. Vautour in regard to rent, here is what I exact from 
you: you must paint me four landscapes representing the 
views, you love best in the environs of Saint Tropez. 

“ I would wish, madame, not to end this letter here. 
You suffer, I am not happy ; and if in this common sorrow 
I could find a reason why you should no longer regard me 
as a stranger, I believe my own grief would be less deep ; 
if I could lessen yours, it seems' to me that I would be 
almost comforted. But the right I usurp for a moment, 
alas! there is nothing to justify. I am unknown to you, 
un thought of if I am silent, importunate if I speak. I lay 
aside my pen, therefore, in recalling to your mind the prin- 
cipal, or rather the only, subject of my letter. You know, 
madame, there is no better comforter than a good action. 
I ask one of you. Oh, do not repulse me ; otherwise I shall 
think that your sorrows have no pity for my suffering, your 
loneliness has no mercy on my isolation. Do not, then, 
accuse me of presumption if I thank you in advance, and 
if I respond to your kindness with the respectful homage 
of my gratitude and my devotion. 

“ Viscount Charles de Varni.” 

“ Is that better ?” asked Charles, handing this letter to 
Calixte Ermel. 

The notary read it ; when he reached the last line he 
looked up affectionately at M. de Varni, and some mali- 
cious thought was perhaps mingled with his expression of 
gratitude and tenderness. 

“ Thank you a thousand times, Monsieur le Viscount,” 
he replied — “ thanks in memory of my old friend Lazare, 
thanks for the peace of poor Ludovise. Now it seems to 
me impossible for her to refuse you.” 

The night had passed away during this long conversa- 
tion ; already through the little window they could see the 


360 


CLOTILDE. 


stars gradually fading and the milky whiteness of morning 
replacing the deep blue sky of night. 

“Monsieur le Viscount,” said the notary, “are you not of 
opinion that the sun on rising should find us out of prison ? 
Let us profit by the unlimited permission Beaucanteuil has 
given me. S'o a gift to the jailer, a little brush to our 
clothes, and let us be off.” 

Five minutes later Calixte Ermel and Charles de Varni, 
after having arranged their dress and loaded the jailer 
(unaccustomed to millionaires for prisoners) with kindness, 
descended together the flight of low steps which leads from 
the rock Des Downs to the town. 

Charles was absent-minded. 

“ And you say,” he murmured, “ that Ludovise is young 
and beautiful ?” 

“She is twenty-two, and she is beautiful,” answered 
Calixte Ermel. 


Y. 


LIGHT. 

Madame Dunoyer to the Viscount Charles de 
Yarni. 

“Saint Tropez, Oct. 20, 1846. 

“ IT ADAME DUNOYER does herself the honor to 
-L’L thank Monsieur le Viscount de Varni for his kind 
offer; she sincerely appreciates its value, but regrets her 
inability to accept it. 

“ She hopes to conclude with Lord Millwood in a few 
days the sale of her house. Some difficulties of detail still 
exist : as soon as they are removed Madame Dunoyer will 
hasten to hand over to Monsieur de Yarni the principal 
and interest of the sum which is due to him on the part 
of Lazare Dunoyer. 

“She begs him, in the mean time, to accept with the 
expression of her regret that of her gratitude and high 
esteem.” 

The Viscount Charles de Yarni to Madame Du- 
noyer. 


“ Madame : “Avignon, Nov. 5, 1846. 

“Could you have guessed the pain your letter would 
cause me, I am sure you would not have written it. I 
think at least it was not deserved. That which you term 
an obliging offer was a prayer — yes, a prayer, cordial, sin- 
cere and fervent, that of a brother to a sister ! It would 
31 361 


362 


CLOTILDE. 


have been sweet to me to think that you would live some 
time longer in that house beloved by the flowers, the sea 
and the sun, the home which is dear to you, where all 
speak to you of your parents, and where, perchance, some 
vague reverie would have spoken to you of me as of a dis- 
tant friend. That charming habitation would have offered 
me a shelter — a shelter for my thoughts and heart. I 
think I told you that I am without family, almost without 
a country ; I have but one friend, who is also your own — M. 
Calixte Ermel — and I hoped that all this would form a link 
between us. Amidst the dangers of the wandering life I 
am about to recommence, I could have- remembered that on 
the seashore, sheltered by your balmy hills, there was one 
peaceful roof to which I would not have been altogether a 
stranger, one pure soul that would have attached to my 
name a thought of consolation, one sad life which would 
have gained a little peace and calmness by being a moment 
in contact with my own. I, who have no ties, would hence- 
forth have had the semblance of a country, a hearth, a 
friendship, a family. My heart, changed by affection, 
would have rested there, like the happy, fluttering seabird 
who, folding his wings for an instant, rests on one of the 
waves rolling before our eyes. 

“ You would not have it so : why ? I am ignorant. Why 
prefer Lord Millwood to me ? You, the daughter of a sailor, 
can you have any predilections for perfidious Albion? I 
jest with the sorrows of the heart ! Ah, if I thought that 
my pleasantries were more welcome to you than the expres- 
sions of an importunate sympathy, I would make so many 
that you would end by smiling. To what purpose? You 
repulse me ; you prefer Lord Millwood ; you are mistress, 
and can dispose at will of that which belongs to you, and 
I should make myself ridiculous in finding fault. Alas! 
I am perhaps already so, in persisting in making myself 


LIGHT. 


363 


known to a stranger who would remain unknown to me, in 
asking an affection which is refused me, in offering a friend- 
ship which is not appreciated. 

“ Deign, then, to pardon me, and forget the foolish man 
who sought to make himself interesting in spite of your 
indifference. In a few days I will again leave Avignon, 
where I am now enjoying M. Ermel’s kind hospitality. 
My first attempt to create for myself a tie, a sentiment and 
an asylum has succeeded so ill that I now think only of 
returning as quickly as possible tb the nomadic life I have 
hitherto led. He who is welcomed and beloved should 
remain stationary ; he to whom all hearts are closed can 
do nothing better than to drown the remembrance of his 
isolation and abandonment in travelling over the world. 
Yet I desire that my travels should be henceforth less 
purposeless, that a more serious and more noble thought 
should direct them. I renounce, therefore, the forests and 
swamps of America, and shall prepare to start for Algiers, 
where one of my old college mates, now in garrison here, 
assures me that I can easily find service as a volunteer. I 
confess that this new French province has always been 
fascinating to my imagination. I would like to live there 
as half soldier, half tourist, mingling with the chances and 
dangers of war the impressions of that beautiful Eastern 
nature so rich and so highly colored. But really I am 
inexcusable. I am still writing of myself, my plans, my 
dreams. And what matters it to you ? Perhaps while I 
am writing to you, you are concluding with Lord Millwood.* 
Deign, then, once again, madame, to excuse a fool who will 
importune you no further, and believe, I beseech you, in 
my respectful and unalterable devotion. 

“ Charles de Varni.” 


364 


CLOTILDE. 


Madame Dunoyer to the Viscount Charles de Varni. 

“Saint Tkopez, Nov. 15 , 1846 . 

“ Monsieur : 

“It is I who am to blame; it is I who now write to 
denounce myself to you as a wicked woman. Your letter 
made me blush for myself and the bad feelings which dic- 
tated my refusal. That refusal I retract : you shall be my 
purchaser ; I have just dismissed Lord Millwood. England 
is vanquished by France. As a worthy daughter of Saint 
Tropez, I could do no less for the honor of our flag. 

“But if this tardy reparation softens the pain I have 
caused you, I would address to you in return a host of 
requests. First, monsieur, w T e will call things by their 
names : my Provengal frankness revolts at the idea of that 
worldly and polite falsehood which would make it appear 
that I do you a service, when it is you, on the contrary, 
who serve me with* a delicacy no shade of which escapes 
me. I will remain your tenant; I will not leave this 
house, which I love, where my mother was born and my 
father died, to which the sacred memories of the tomb and 
the cradle attach me. I will even do for you — and it will 
be another pleasure — the pictures you demand, but in ac- 
cepting all this it must be well understood that it is you 
who are the benefactor, I who am under obligations, and 
that your delicate hand, in giving me pleasure, succeeds 
no less in giving me variety. Then, monsieur, you must 
give up this journey t.o Algiers and the plan of serving 
as a volunteer, which lacks common sense. What! at 
twenty-nine, with a handsome fortune and a noble name, 
you would turn conscript, and are ambitious of the honor 
of being called a soldier on the battle-field! Remember 
the fifty degrees of heat, and the fevers, and the Kabyles, 
and the shots received without glory in some ambuscade ! 
Hold ! I could talk of this till to-morrow. The other even- 


LIGHT ; 


365 


ing a national felucca unloaded here ; it was transporting 
the discharged sick and wounded to their families. Oh, 
I still see those ghastly faces, those sunken eyes, those wan 
brows, that air of discouragement and distress. My tears 
flowed at the very thought of the sisters and mothers of 
those unhappy young men ; and if in the number I had 
had a brother or a friend — Let us talk no more of it. 
You will grant me this second request, and you will remain 
a civilian. Lastly, my third demand : you will not seek to 
know why I at first refused you — why my first letter was 
so ceremonious and so formal. Grant me this favor; it will 
make the pleasure I find in being able to remain in my 
humble, cheerful home sweeter and more perfect. You 
see, monsieur, you will have no further cause to complain 
of your tenant, for before consenting to accept a favor she 
asks of you three others. Even if it is true, as you would 
make me believe, that you are not exacting to your friends, 
I claim the right, independently of our bargain, to call my- 
self your devoted servant, 

“LtJDOVISE DuNOYER.” 

Charles de Varni to Madame Dunoyer. 

“ Avignon, Nov. 23 , 1846 . 

“ Oh, madame, how much good your letter has done me ! 
Accept a thousand thanks and blessings, for you have a 
word for every grief, a balm for every wound. M. Ermel 
told me the truth when he said that you were one of those 
rare women destined to reconcile to the world, and to sweet 
and tender affections, those who by trouble and deceit have 
been taught to doubt others as well as themselves. Influ- 
enced by such exquisite natures, broken hearts revive and 
are healed just as in your lovely climate delicate plants 
find heat and life. Again I thank you. Your letter opens 
a new existence to me ; it gives me all that I have hereto- 
31 * 


363 


CLOTILDE. 


fore wanted; I am no longer alone, I am no longer an 
orphan, I am no longer disinherited of ties and family. 
M. Ermel is almost like a father to me, yet he has never 
been so dear to me as since he has spoken of you. Poor 
notary ! Could you know with how many questions I over- 
whelm him every evening when, seated by the hearth, our 
feet to the fire, we indulge in long conversations ! These 
conversations are full of you; your name rises involun-. 
tarily to my lips ; Calixte smiles kindly upon me, and then 
— then we are like Madame de Sevign6’s pen, which could 
not remain quiet. I am never weary of hearing him recall 
all that is good and amiable in you — your devotion to his 
old friend Lazare, your courage in the midst of the trials 
following his death, your numerous sacrifices to keep the 
honor of the Eunoyer establishment intact, and withal 
your cheerful grace, your simple, charming mind, your tal- 
ents, your taste for the fine arts, for the mysterious har- 
monies of sky and sea, for all that can elevate and ennoble 
the heart. * Ludovise,’ he then says to me (ah, pardon ! 
it is he who speaks), ‘ is, after yourself, the person whom I 
love best — you as my son, she as my daughter V How can 
I depict to you, madame, all the diplomacy I employ to 
make him repeat this phrase at least two or three times in 
the evening? For then it seems to me that you are my 
sister. My sister! oh, with what divine pleasure I write 
a name so pure and so sweet that the heart is softened 
and purified in uttering it. 

“ Pardon ! my pen runs in advance of my thoughts ; I 
stop it to make you a confession. Scold me ; I deserve it, 
and everything is amiable coming from you, even your 
reproaches. I do not know why they talk of the curiosity 
of the daughters of Eve ; we too are sons of this common 
mother, and we have had, I assure you, a good share in the 
inheritance. You impose one condition upon me which I 


LIGHT. 


367 


find very hard : it is never to ask your motive for your first 
refusal, your terrible letter in the third person, which made 
me so unhappy. Do you know, madame, this regret is 
enough to rouse a more tranquil imagination than mine? 
and I am tempted to imitate the little girl whose parents, 
when embarrassed by her questions, had ordered her to ask 
no more, demanded why she must not ask why. Yes, 
madame, I confess humbly that I have racked my brain 
for eight days to discover to what mysterious motive I could 
attribute that sudden change, the formal brevity of your 
first letter and the delightful cordiality which breathes in 
the second. I have thought, puzzled and reasoned with 
myself : I can find no sensible answer. So, then, madame, 
since we are in the line of making sales, purchases, rents 
and bargains, shall we not yet transact this point? I will 
subscribe to all the other conditions you impose upon me ; 
I will not go to Africa ; I will resign myself to the official 
r 61 e of benefactor, but you must pardon the feeling of 
curiosity to which I now yield. You, who are so gracious 
and good, should do nothing by halves ; do not let me pine 
in ignorance : tell me all. I am sure that I shall find only 
a reason for admiring you more deeply, for thanking you 
more fervently, and for calling myself with greater sin- 
cerity and pleasure your entirely devoted 

“Charles de Varni.” 

Charles de Varni to Madame Dunoyer. 

“Avignon, Dec. 7, 1846. 

“ Fifteen long days, and not a w r ord from you ! Not a 
line in reply to the letter in wffiich I thanked you for that 
which made me so happy ! What have I done ? Have I 
unwittingly displeased you ? Has my curiosity, the expres- 
sion of which I could not restrain, offended you? Do you 
already repent of having allowed a ray of friendship and 


368 


CLOTILDE. 


hope to shine on my isolation ? Ah, you should have per- 
sisted in your refusal ! You should not have written me that 
kind, sweet page which I have so often re-read ! You 
should have allowed me to seek diversion for my thoughts 
and oblivion of the past in a new life! Oblivion! Is it 
possible to me now? I do not know you, and yet your 
image is unceasingly present to my mind, I have so often 
forced M. Ermel to paint me your portrait! Thanks to 
him, your eyes and your smile exist for me as if I had 
already seen you smile and look at me ! That blessing you 
can never take from me, for you did not give it to me : 
why, then, desire to deprive me of it? Why wish to re- 
turn to that loneliness of mind and heart so dangerous 
and so cruel? Was my letter inconsiderate? Did I pass 
the bounds of gratitude and respect ? Must we submit to 
deplorable worldly ceremony, to the necessity of weighing 
every word and syllable — we who are deprived of every 
tie, who are answerable only to our consciences and our 
God ? If it is so, madame, I can but ask your pardon ; 
I misjudged you, I thought you would understand the sin- 
cerity of my heart, and that you would there find nothing 
to repulse, as I had nothing to feign ! What have I said 
so wrong ? Ah, it is true ; I recall it now. The sweet name 
of sister slipped from my pen ; it was asking too much, was 
it not? A sister is so indulgent and affectionate! Noth- 
ing can alarm her when there is grief to soothe, danger 
to turn aside; a sister is the visible guardian angel, the 
gracious being between the mother and the wife, like the 
former in kindness and devotion, like the latter in youth 
and charms. Had you but accepted the place of my sister ! 
But I feel it now; there was nothing to justify this wish, 
this hope ! What right had I to expect you to take this 
interest in my life — I, a stranger ? Is friendship obtained by 
force ? Is not the heart free to dispose at will of its affec- 


LIGHT. 


369 


tions? Yes, I was wrong. Do not punish me with too 
great severity ; write me but a word, to say you forgive me, 
one word to break this icy silence, to re-establish some 
tie, however slight, between us. Deal gently with me : my 
mind, my imagination, is ever too ready to run riot ! If you 
require it, I will promise formally to trouble you no further, 
I will write to you no more; you shall not know that I 
exist ; I will again become the stranger of two months since. 
If, as I fear, such is your secret wish, if it is the only way 
for me to avoid displeasing you, I will resign myself to it 
without a murmur. But this last sacrifice deserves some 
reward ; oh, in pity grant it by writing the two lines I 
beg, two lines to tell me if I must again regard myself as 
entirely alone, altogether miserable. 

“ I have the honor to be, madame, with the deepest re- 
spect, your humble and devoted servant, 

“Charles de Varni.” 

Madame Dunoyer to the Viscount de Varni. 

“ I send, monsieur, to the address of M. Calixte Ermel, 
in Avignon, the first picture, which I have just finished for 
you. Be kind enough, I beg you, to acknowledge its re- 
ception, to feel no anger at my silence and to believe in 
the sincerity of your devoted servant, 

“Ludovise Dunoyer.” 

Viscount Charles de Varni to Madame Dunoyer. 

“ Avignon, Doc. 22 , 1846 . 

“Madame, that picture — no, I cannot be mistaken— it 
is not a view in Saint Tropez, it is a view in Oberland ! It 
is the valley of Lauterbrunn, taken from the steep side of 
the little Shedeck. Yes, I recognize every detail of that 
beautiful landscape — the cascade, the chalet, the narrow 
path winding around the precipitous sides of the moun- 
Y 


370 


CLOTILDE. 


tain, whose curves now hide and now expose it to view like 
the portions of a severed serpent, and lower the group of 
travellers hastening toward the chalet to avoid the storm 
which is gathering and threatening around the peaks of the 
mountains. Nothing is wanting; this painting is a por- 
tion of my recollections, and on seeing it on canvas I ask 
by what mysterious magic you have chosen this page, 
already effaced in my impressions of my travels, to restore 
it to me, living, colored, bathed in the hazy light of a sum- 
mer evening, revived by the power of your pencil. In 
heaven’s name, why have you taken this distant view, in- 
stead of Saint Tropez and its beach? Is it chance? Is 
there in this choice an aim of which I am ignorant, an 
intentional allusion to a time I would forget? Did you 
know that I had lived in Switzerland, that I had tra- 
versed that path of Lauterbrunn ? Did you wish to cause 
me pleasure or to give me a lesson ? Who are you ? What 
is your secret? You who evoke the past which I would 
cancel, you who close the future to which I aspire? I 
beseech you on my knees, do not make me await too long 
the explanation of this strange enigma. I feel, I know, I am 
sure my reason will not resist it. For two months my heart 
has been filled with you ; twenty times in those two months 
I have wished to depart, to say adieu to poor Calixte, who 
understands none of my extravagances. An irresistible 
power ever detained me. The pole is at Saint Tropez ; my 
heart returns there incessantly, drawn by an unconquerable 
love. Oh, in pity, tell me all. Your image has done me 
good. Thanks to it, thanks to you, I have been able to 
give up without pain or despair a cherished illusion which I 
once thought I could never tear from my heart without its 
breaking ; after a horrible history which showed me my 
family and my youth devoted to hereditary misfortunes, I 
have been able to feel myself born to a new life. Would 


LIGHT. 


371 


you become my evil genius ? I have suffered enough, I 
have had cause enough to fear the wickedness of men, the 
fatal conditions of my destiny ; be to me the brightness 
that ends the storm, and not the lightning that continues 
it. I beg you, tell me why you have chosen this view in 
Oberland ; otherwise I shall believe that you take pleasure 
in the anxiety which is consuming, the distress which is 
killing me ; I shall think that you repent of the good you 
have done, and with an inexplicable refinement of cruelty 
you wish to change the phase of my despair, instead of 
consenting to console me. 

“Charles de Yarni.’’ 

Madame Dunoyer to Charles de Yarni. 

“Saint Tropez, Jan. 3, 1847. 

“I see, monsieur, dissimulation is impossible to some 
minds ; they wear it ill, it brings them unhappiness ; at 
fault in having recourse to it, they are more so when they 
would repair it : such is my case at present. 

“You are not unknown to me. The health of my hus- 
band obliged me last year to spend a season with him at 
the springs of Uriage ; once there, as he grew no stronger, 
the physicians advised him to travel in Switzerland, instead 
of returning directly to Saint Tropez, where painful occu- 
pation awaited him. I accompanied him, and we journeyed 
together, rather as invalids than tourists, 6ver that pictur- 
esque country. 

“ My husband was the most excellent of men ; but, alas ! 
he already bore within him the germs of the disease 
which three months later was to take him from me. The 
state of his business, the ever-increasing difficulties against 
which he struggled, and which appeared to him more 
threatening the longer he remained from home, had, more- 
over, altered his evenness of disposition and given to his 


372 


CL 0 TILDE. 


character the alternations of dejection and irritation, too 
well known to those whose part it has been to console the 
unhappy or to nurse the sick. M. Dunoyer was, therefore, 
a sad travelling-companion for a woman of twenty, some- 
thing of an artist, and who, finding herself for the first time 
face to face with that glorious nature, would wish to enjoy 
the pure air, the Alpine perfumes, the breezes, the verdure 
and the sun. God, nevertheless, permitted that I, who 
owed so much to M. Dunoyer, who had vowed him grati- 
tude and filial affection, should know, during that entire 
trip, no other sentiment, be governed by no other wish, 
than the earnest desire to take my husband back to Saint 
Tropez cured and comforted. 

“Once only a feeling of revolt, which happily no one 
could suspect, made itself felt in my heart. We arrived 
one evening at Interlaken. My husband, though terribly 
fatigued, with that caprice so common to invalids, desired 
to take his meals in the public-room. We were told that 
we would take supper with three strangers, and, in fact, we 
found three persons at the chimney corner — a lady and two 
young men. 

“The lady was so beautiful and so elegant that I, a 
poor citizen of Provence, felt deeply mortified on seating 
myself near her. One of the two young men called himself 
her brother; the other — oh how can I paint, monsieur, 
the expression, of love which lighted up his face every time 
he turned his eyes toward the lady ! and when he spoke to 
her, what emotion in his trembling voice! At that mo- 
ment an evil thought took possession of me. I looked at 
my husband, whose face, faded by care and age, ‘no 
longer bespoke his kindness of heart ; I saw him bending 
with the avidity of an invalid over his plate, while I was 
obliged to dispute his food with him as if he was a child. 
I said to myself (oh, monsieur, how much confidence I 


LIGHT : 


373 


must have in you to confess to you these evil thoughts !) — I 
said to myself that I too might have married a man of an 
age suited to my own, who could have loved me, who would 
have looked at me — as you looked at that lady! for it 
was you, monsieur. Why should I seek to give to this 
simple recital a mystery to deepen interest by exciting 
curiosity? It was you. A few hours later, according to 
their usual custom, the host brought me the register on 
which travellers inscribe their names. I there read these 
three names, clearly written : La Marquise Ottavia Belperani, 
Simon d’ Arrioules, Le Viscount Charles de Varni, and I 
remembered that your companion in speaking to you had 
called you Charles : I could not therefore be mistaken. 

“Your name awakened other ideas in my mind, as for 
two years my husband had given the keeping of his books 
to my care, and I was then in correspondence with M. 
Calixte Ermel. I knew that he had placed a considerable 
sum with our firm, which sum formed part of your fortune. 
You were our creditor. What a strange labyrinth is the 
human heart! I seized upon this idea, certainly a sec- 
ondary one ; I clung to it, in order to justify the irritation I 
felt in thinking of you ; I persuaded myself that I had 
taken a dislike to you on account of that money, that debt 
of which you were assuredly innocent. I discovered a 
hundred reasons for finding you displeasing; I concluded 
(and all this in a few minutes) that since* the beautiful 
person to whom you spoke with such passion did not bear 
your name, and was consequently not your wife, you were 
probably engaged in some wretched intrigue, which betrayed 
a bad heart. In an instant you appeared to me a foolish, 
wicked coxcomb. Sbrigani was struck with M. de Pour- 
ceaugnac on account of the grace with which he ate his 
bread : I should have been able to give in explanation of 
my sudden antipathy no better reason than Sbrigani. 

32 


374 


CLOTILDE. 


“I do not know to what singular whim I yielded on 
taking the pen to inscribe my name on the register. I was 
unwilling that if it should again fall into your hands, and 
you should wish to know with whom you had supped, your 
eyes should rest on a name which business relations might 
bring to your notice at a later period. I would not even 
allow this imperceptible link to exist between us, and I 
wrote in the book only my maiden name, Ludovise Gerard. 

“ The day following, my husband and I made the long 
and classic trip from Interlaken to Lauterbrunn. Sickness 
having impaired his strength, he traversed the distance on 
one of the mountain horses whose steps are so even and 
sure. I followed on foot, happy to walk, to breathe, to live. 
The weather was so lovely, the morning light played so 
beautifully over the landscape, that I felt myself gradually 
penetrated by its sweet and healing influence. As I 
climbed the flowery sides of the mountains, whose peaks 
were lost in the azure, my heart seemed to return to better 
thoughts, while my lungs were revived by the purer air. 
I was ashamed of myself, of the bad humor which I had 
felt on the preceding evening, the sentiments of hatred and 
anger with which you had inspired me. I sought to dis- 
cover my motive for it, and I soon saw that our debt had 
nothing to do with it — that I envied the love you betrayed 
for another. I felt how unjust and foolish I had been ; 
envy, irritation, calumnious suspicions, repining at my fate, 
injustice to my husband, — I had been guilty of all these 
faults in one ; I experienced a sincere repentance, and to 
make sure of not again falling into the same folly, I deter- 
mined to think no more of you. 

“Toward the middle of the day, my husband being 
fatigued, we entered a chalet, where we took some hours* 
repose. I took advantage of my liberty to open my light 
artist’s baggage ; I seized a folding-chair, paper and pen- 


LIGHT. 


375 


cil, and moved some hundred steps farther on to sketch 
the view of that magnificent valley of Lauterbrunn. I 
was leaning against the trunk of a large oak, the advance 
guard of a grove of tall trees which covered the whole plain, 
and by their dense shade made the distance and lower 
points appear more luminous and clear. I was becoming 
absorbed in my work when I heard behind me, on the 
path which winds through the trees, joyful young voices, 
among which I distinguished yours. I was ashamed to 
feel my pencil tremble in my fingers — the painful impres- 
sion from which I thought myself delivered again took 
possession of my heart. I made you responsible for that 
second backsliding ; it appeared to me that you would be 
odious to me should our eyes meet at that moment. I hid 
myself, therefore, as best I could, behind the trunk of the 
aged oak, and made a sort of observatory of it, whence my 
eyes were fixed upon you. Whether by chance or design, 
the brother of Madame Ottavia Belperani had preceded 
you. You were alone with her, you had given her your 
arm ; her foot slipped on that precipitous path. I saw you 
turn pale, and a second after your face beamed with pleas- 
ure, because, obedient to a slight feeling of fear, Ottavia 
leaned more unreservedly upon you. Thanks to the ex- 
treme purity of the air I could hear a few words you said ; 
you spoke to her tenderly, and she replied with languor. 
A few minutes later I ceased to hear you, but I could see 
you for along time on the path leading to Lauterbrunn, 
you gently bending over her, she leaning softly on you. 
In the evening we lodged in the same inn, but I persuaded 
my husband not to leave his room ; I passed the evening 
there with him. Before the next day you had gone in a 
different direction, and we did not meet again. 

“ Now, monsieur, forgive me ; I have told you all, 
explained all. In my simple, calm, monotonous life, de- 


37 6 


CLOTILDE. 


void of remorse or trouble, the remembrance of you by 
some singular chance is connected with the only mo- 
ment of my existence when a feeling of which I was not 
mistress, and the absurd injustice of which I have seen, 
rendered me guilty before God toward my husband and 
myself. I well know that you had really nothing to do 
with it, and that any young man whom I had seen, under 
the same circumstances, evincing the same tenderness to a 
young and beautiful woman, would have aroused in me the 
same feeling of discontent, opposition and envy. It is also 
unpardonable to associate this recollection with the remem- 
brance of you. Yet the prejudice was strong enough to 
make me refuse the obliging offer contained in your first 
letter, to which you give such a delicate form. I pre- 
ferred having business dealings with Lord Millwood, a 
stranger of whom I should never know anything beyond 
his bank notes, to placing myself under obligations to or 
entering into relations with you. Then I blushed for my 
injustice, my refusal; I reproached myself still more when 
I found by your second letter that your imagination (a 
little too romantic, allow me to tell you !) had taken my 
negative reply au tragique, and that perhaps I should be 
responsible for the new adventures you were going to court 
and the dangers you would run. I . then wrote to tell you 
that I would accept your offer, and to beg you at the same 
time not to ask why I had withdrawn that unfortunate re- 
fusal so suddenly and completely. Your reply was not 
exactly what I hoped for and desired. I wondered how I 
should answer you, and while I was asking myself this 
question time slipped away. You wrote to me a fourth 
time. Your ideas were more extravagant, your language 
more sad. I do not know how it happened ; involuntarily 
I found among my papers the sketch I had taken of the 
valley of Lauterbrunn. I had resolved to burn it, but had 


LIGHT. 


377 


not had the courage ; artists are subject to this weakness ! 
Whilst I was pondering on the manner in which to answer 
you, this- sketch, changing under my fingers, grew into a 
picture. I remembered that I had four to paint for you, in 
payment for my year’s rent ; I thought this might be the 
first, since it had been tolerably successful, and that you 
would be as much pleased with a landscape which would 
no doubt awaken sweet memories to you as with an unknown 
view which could recall nothing either to your memory or 
your heart. 

“ There is the whole history, monsieur, and I am ashamed 
that it has been so long. I wished to tell you all, for 
nothing weighs upon me mo*e than disguise, evasion and 
concealment. You see the whole is very simple, and that 
this enigma is less bloody than that of the Sphinx. Now I 
am going, in my turn, to address to you a last request. I 
am a poor woman, very plain and simple-minded, to whom 
the first blessing, when positive happiness is wanting, should 
be tranquillity and calmness. You will doubtless admit 
.that, after having softened the sad details which have fol- 
lowed the death of M. Dunoyer with such kindness and 
delicacy, it would be wrong to bring into my existence an 
element of emotion and trouble which I ought to ignore. 
I have had little experience, but it seems to me that a 
woman of twenty-two cannot be a sister, by the heart only, 
to a young man of twenty-nine, when she is not so by 
blood. These are the illusions of romance, and as I have 
never read any, perhaps I exaggerate their import. This, 
then, is my request — that you will write me another letter, 
very short and very wise, to tell me that you forgive me 
the pitiful malice and foolish concealment of which I have 
been guilty, and for which I can offer no excuse. Then 
our correspondence must end ; you will return to the world, 
not to make yourself a Bedouin or a Spain, but to live as 
32 * 


378 


CLO TILDE. 


becomes your rank, and hereafter to raise to yourself a 
family. Man is no more made to wander constantly in 
dream-land than to travel incessantly — to be externally a 
dreamer than to be eternally a tourist. Return, then, 
courageously to real life ;* reality has its duties and imagi- 
nation its dangers. As for me, I will offer up sincere 
prayers for your happiness ; I will think of you only with 
earnest gratitude for the time of respite I pass in my dear 
home at Saint Tropez, and I will for ever call myself, from 
the innermost recesses of my heart, your devoted servant, 

“Ludovise Dunoyer.” 

Charles de Varnijpo Madame Dunoyer. 

“Avignon, Jan. 8, 1847. 

“Yes, madame, my letter shall be short, it shall be wise, 
for what wisdom greater than that which consists in com- 
pleting the happiness of one’s life? 

“ M. Calixte Ermel takes it upon himself to tell you who 
the Marquise Ottavia Belperani was ; I, for my part, have 
not the courage, and it seems to me, too, that it will be less 
wounding to your eyes and heart if this name and this 
image were recalled by the v pen of the good old notary, 
instead of by mine. 

“ I merely add a few lines to his letter. I love you, 
and I ask your hand as the only happiness I can hope for 
in this world. 

“Charles de Varni.” 

Madame Dunoyer to Charles de Varnl- 

“ Saint Tkopez, Jan. 17, 1847. 

“I have already told you, monsieur, that I am unac- 
quainted with the language and etiquette of fashionable 
society. I do not know how a woman more enlightened 
than myself would reply to your advances, but I should 


LIGHT. 


379 


think myself guilty of dissimulation and hypocrisy did I 
not tell you that it caused me deep emotion, and that I am 
truly grateful for it. Yes, in the midst of my cares and 
my trials, in the uniform melancholy of a life which is 
covered with a mourning-veil, and which I have already 
devoted to the commonplace, to resignation and to work, 
the recollection of the moment when such a man as your- 
self thought me worthy to be his companion will be very 
dear to me. That your letter was dictated by impulse, not 
reflection, that I must see therein rather the promptings 
of a romantic imagination than the infallible instinct of 
the heart, certainly gives me no right to cavil with you 
thereupon ; I ought to appreciate only the proposal itself, 
and it is, so honorable that I thank you for it. I may be 
wrong to speak thus frankly, but what I am about to add 
reassures me. No, monsieur, I cannot take advantage of 
an impulse of which you might hereafter repent. Remem- 
ber that this is not now a question of a house to sell or to 
rent, but of two lives to settle for ever. Remember that 
in accepting you I should be responsible, not only for your 
unhappiness if I did not succeed in making you happy, 
but for my own should I meet with disappointment and 
tears in the union. I am sure that you would never 
reproach me either with my poverty, my humble birth or 
the imprudence which had bound 11s to each other, and 
yet I feel that a word or a gesture, a cloud, a shade which 
would betray your feelings in spite of yourself, would suf- 
fice to cause me suffering. I am sensitive and proud, like 
all who, having only a certain moral dignity for their 
nobility, fear to compromise it. Should I perceive that 
any feeling of regret was gradually robbing me of your 
affection, I should never forgive myself for having con- 
fided in it, and my remorse would create a new gulf 
between us. I should be more miserable than women 


380 


CLOTILDE. 


who meet with undeserved trials in their household ; one 
should take such pleasure in forgiving the latter. But to 
suffer for my own imprudence, to be forced at the same time 
to accuse myself and to doubt you, would be a frightful 
torture. In pity to me and to yourself, do not expose me 
to it. 

“ This letter is already too long ; I will conclude with a 
few lines. You are a millionaire, and I am poor; you 
have an aristocratic name, and I am an humble plebeian. 
Finally, in the single meeting which placed us for a mo- 
ment face to face with each other, I saw you, and you did 
not look at me. How much love would be necessary to 
overcome the first two obstacles, and how, in thinking of 
my third objection, can I believe in a serious and lasting 
love? 

“ In any case, monsieur, I must end this letter as I be- 
gan it, by assuring you that yours touched me deeply. I 
stopped to reflect before declining the proposal it contain- 
ed, and this refusal, inspired by a foresight for which you 
will hereafter thank me, cannot alter my gratitude and 
devotion. r 

“Ludovise Dunoyer.” 

Charles de Varni to Madame Dunoyer. 

“ Avignon, Jan. 27, 1847. 

“ Will you accuse me, madame, of a want of respect if I 
begin by answering what you call your last objection ? We 
have met once, you have seen me and I have not looked at 
you — so, at least, you say. Well, madame, undeceive your- 
self; our meeting at Interlaken, on the contrary, lives in 
my memory. You know now, from the revelations of M. 
Calixte Ermel, what that idol was, that Ottavia Belperani, 
with whom I was then occupied. You know, too, by what 
fatal train of circumstances I was led to believe that 


LIGHT. 


381 


Ottavia was worthy of my affection. But you do not, 
cannot, know (for I have myself understood it only within 
a few days) the strange sentiment which I felt on seeing 
you enter the dining-room at Interlaken. Although noth- 
ing could give me an idea of Simon’s diabolical plan, 
when with his pretended sister I frequently asked myself 
if those alternations of coquetry and coldness, those skilful 
moods of encouraging languor or irritating reserve, were 
not too studied, too artificial, whether sincere love could be 
united to so much art, and whether I would find unalloyed 
happiness in an affection the azure of whose sky was so 
closely mingled with the tempest, whose ordinary calm was 
ruffled with such spicy breezes. These distressing reflections 
had annoyed me during the whole day preceding the even- 
ing when I saw you. When you entered the room with that 
poor old man, aged with years, suffering and grief, leaning 
on your arm, you appeared to me the genius of devotion 
and goodness. How beautiful and touching I thought you 
in your plain travelling-dress ! How was I moved w T hen I 
remarked the attentions, the delicate forethought which 
you exerted for your pale, feeble companion ! An invol- 
untary comparison arose in my mind ; with that suscepti- 
bility to impressions which I acknowledge to you is one of 
my faults, but the result of which was that time at least 
salutary, I compared you to the brilliant Ottavia. I 
thought that there was in that timid beauty, in your simple 
and graceful appearance, a promise of happiness which I 
was perchance wrong to expect from a woman with so 
haughty a brow as Ottavia, who seemed rather formed for 
gaiety, vanity and pleasure than for domestic joys or home 
affection. Oh, I thought to myself, could I but take the 
place of that sick, morose old man, her love for whom is 
a perpetual sacrifice ! Could I but substitute a more sweet 
and passionate affection for that resigned devotion, that 


382 


CLOTILDE. 


filial tenderness! Could I but see the fire of a love as 
young as herself gradually brighten those eyes dimmed by 
self-denial and patience, and cheer that lovely brow bent 
under the weight of mysterious trials ! Such was my 
dream, and I must confess with the same frankness that 
it lasted but a minute. Did Ottavia divine my thoughts? 
Did they intuitively fear the rival who had caused this 
passing dream ? I cannot tell, but I remember that on 
the instant her manner to me changed. During the whole 
day she had been cold, pettish, given up to coquetry and 
caprice. That evening she became affectionate and kind, 
and her feminine strategy seeing her former art at fault, 
she became submissive, sad and tender; she appeared to 
dread the loss of my love, and by this new feint she led me 
to redouble my eloquence and passion. 

“ This, madame, accounts for the expressive pantomime 
which during the course of that evening you surprised 
between the false marquise and myself, and of which my 
heart is now too much ashamed to need to ask your for- 
giveness. Yet see how those singular moments, which 
seemed to raise a barrier between us, at the same time 
drew us together by imperceptible cords ! While, you felt 
a sentiment of irritation and aversion toward me, at which 
I am tempted to rejoice, I thanked you internally for 
having by your presence alone provoked that change in 
Ottavia’s manners, and almost forced that proud sovereign 
to doubt her power. You spoke with reason of the strange 
labyrinth called the heart of man. Assuredly I was in 
love with Ottavia alone, and yet I was not displeased when 
she found you sufficiently formidable to trouble her peace, 
and force her to apply herself to prove her love, instead 
pf showing herself so sure of mine. Thus you were still 
present to me in' the midst of the thoughts which recalled 
me to my fascinating companion. My heart resembled 


LIGHT. 


383 


the turbulent waves which return a confused and broken 
image of any object they reflect. 

“A few hours later, when I was alone in my room 
reflecting on the events of that evening, you were still 
there. Left to myself, free from the fascination Ottavia 
exercised over me, I was struck by the contrast which 
represented her to me careless and splendid as a f6te, while 
you appeared in the hidden recesses of my heart sweet and 
gentle as the flowers which reveal themselves by their per- 
fume. To calm the agitation of my mind, I opened my 
window and inhaled with delight the air of that lovely 
night. The Jungfrau raised its immense peak of snow 
and ice against the deep azure of the sky, where countless 
stars were glittering. Pardon the follies of a dreamer and 
a poet. I chose two of them : one was brilliant as a dia- 
mond, the other pale and half-veiled, and these two stars 
were to me the emblem of what was passing in my hearc. 
"Where would I find happiness ? I murmured. This one is 
very bright and beautiful, but even in its brilliancy there 
'is something of the icy hardness of those eternal snows in 
which its light is for ever bathed ; the other scarce raises 
its timid brow above the distant horizon, but it seems to 
smile on earth, shedding its mellow light over the balmy 
hills. At this moment, as if to give another form to my 
reverie, the preludes of a waltz reached my ear; it was 
Ottavia, to whrfm they had given the principal apartment, 
which contained a piano, after the fashion of Swiss inns, 
and who, to recall me to myself, perhaps, was playing some 
of Thalberg’s variations with her agile fingers. At the 
same time I turned my eyes toward a window in the corner 
of the building where a light still shone. Something told 
me that you were there. In fact, by that feeble light, I 
saw you passing from that room to the next, doubtless to 
give M. Dunoyer the attentions his state of suffering and 


384 


CLOTILDE. 


fatigue required ; then you returned, fell on your knees 
with your hands clasped, and it seemed to me that my heart 
at that instant prayed with your lips. Oh yes ! that com- 
mon prayer, wafted to God from two souls which then 
appeared widely separated, and yet were in every way 
drawn to each other — that prayer was, I am sure, the first 
link in our fate. Already you protected me, already your 
heavenly image purified my eyes, unconsciously corrupted 
by the looks of the courtesan. I feel it now, with the 
deepest gratitude; the emotions of that evening, the con- 
trasts which alternately took possession of my heart,, the 
comparison which I continually drew between you, a stran- 
ger, you, the vision of a day, and the woman who I then 
thought had decided my fate, those mysterious fancies 
which always led me to think of you, — all, all were the 
voice of my guardian angel, who, wearing your features, 
warned me of my danger. 

“Ah, may she ever retain them! for now it would be 
impossible for me to separate her from you. Yes, that 
love, deep, infinite, the expression of which, had I not 
done violence to my feelings, would already have filled 
these pages — that love is not the unreflecting impulse of a 
romantic imagination ; it is not the growth of a day : it was 
born that first evening when God placed us face to face, 
when he permitted a ray of heavenly light to combat within 
me the impostures of hell. For you were not, madame, 
one woman struggling with another woman. Oh no ! you 
were more than that — the angel of forgiveness, the good 
genius striving with the evil genius to save from his coils 
the wretch he would ruin. Say not, then, that my love 
arose too quickly, say not that the Nile begins when the 
eyes can first trace .its course and see its banks. Invisible 
then, now revealed, this love is still the same. My heart has 
not changed ; it now understands what it could not then 


LIGHT. 


385 


comprehend, — that is all. Dear, gentle benefactress, can 
you have the courage so soon to relinquish the part of 
my guardian angel ? Will you only enact it for those who 
suffer or are in error? Will you not permit him whom 
you have saved to consecrate to you the heart you have 
protected, and to share in your peaceful life some of the 
joy and happiness which you alone can give him? Cruel 
to yourself, will you he pitiless to me ? Will you abandon 
me afresh to the dangers of the world, the sad vicissitudes 
of life, the guidance of my own foolish mind, from which, 
if you forsake me, there will be none to protect me ? I am 
a millionaire, you say, and you are poor. Ah, do not abuse 
my millions and your poverty! It would be pride. It 
is precisely because I have a large fortune, because I am 
rich enough for two, that I can think of happiness only. 
Would you rather that neither of us should have any- 
thing ? and do you believe that poverty, if shared, would 
make us more happy? Leave to common novels the fifteen 
hundred francs and my Sophie . For a man who can love, 
I believe there exists no greater trial than that of being 
unable to give to the woman he has chosen the enjoyments 
of wealth. I beseech you, therefore, madame, do not profit 
by this, your first advantage. As for my birth, you will be 
generous enough never to speak of it. Such terrible asso- 
ciations are connected with it, such cruel memories and 
such frightful catastrophes, that, unlike other gentlemen 
who long to enlarge their scrolls, I would gladly make 
mine smaller. In order to return to common life, to escape 
misfortunes, to be restored to sweet and salutary affections, 
the first difficulty I meet is to break completely with the 
past, and consequently to have as few ancestors as possible. 
Then do not overwhelm me with the ancient splendors of 
my family : it would be cruel, and you know it is not polite 
to remind people of what they wish to forget. Do you 
33 Z 


386 


CLOTILDE. 


find this argument too subtle for your integrity of mind 
and heart? Then I will answer with one hand in your 
own that that which makes nobility precious is the remem- 
brance of the noble actions which serve for its dates and 
origin, and that for my part I know of nothing more noble 
than the wife of a merchant who, fearful of seeing a blot, 
a shade on the reputation for probity acquired by her hus- 
band, which is his nobility, resigns herself to every sacri- 
fice and consents to live in poverty, and work. There 
again, madame, the advantage is on your side ; to touch on 
this string would be to show yourself wanting in Christian 
humility, for with you nobility is a possession instead of a 
recollection, a light instead of a reflection. Speak no more 
of it, then, if you would not have me accuse you of remind- 
ing me of my unworthiness of you. 

“ Such is my plea ; nothing would be wanting to its elo- 
quence if to make it eloquent it was enough for my misery 
or my happiness to depend on the gain or loss of the cause 
for which it pleads. But no, I was wrong. I ought not 
to have told you all this ; I ought to erase all and write but 
one word — the only word of the heart, that which replaces, 
absorbs, swallows up all else. I love you, Ludovise ! My 
hand trembles, my heart palpitates, my whole being quivers, 
as I write the magic syllables which contain the balm to 
heal all wounds, to overcome all obstacles, to fill all voids, 
to vanquish vain pride, part those who appear united, unite 
those who seem most divided. I love you ! Oh, this 
word is sweet to write, and I have been foolish to write 
any others. You, too, are young ,* your heart is forbidden 
to beat, but it is not for ever closed ; nothing has ruffled 
the mournful repose of your expression, but it has not for 
ever repulsed that flame which is life. Is your sun so cold 
that it does not teach you to love as it teaches the banks 
and waves of the ocean to tremble beneath its rays? I 


LIGHT. 


387 


love you : let this word suffice. If you can understand it 
we are both saved ; if you persist in raising obstacles and 
mistrust between us, atoms which love can annihilate with 
a single spark, I shall say that my guardian angel forsakes 
me, that my benefactress is wearied of her r61e, that she 
likes better to know me exposed far from her to a thousand 
dangers, to a thousand sufferings, than to enjoy near me 
the happiness of making me happy. 

“ Charles de Varni.” 

Ltjdovise to Charles. 

“ Saint Tropez, Feb. 9, 1847. 

“Yes, you say truly; the woman would be cold and 
insensible who could read without emotion the pages you 
address to me. I will not scold you, I will not tell you 
that you too have been cruel, or at least imprudent, to 
address the language of passion to a simple and ignorant 
woman who had no possession but repose. This repose, 
can I retain it after having read your letter ? That peace 
of mind which was so precious to me, have you not for 
ever changed it ? To tell you so is to make a confession I 
should for ever hide in the innermost recesses of my heart. 
Happy or sad, alone or called to the honor of being your 
wife, let it suffice you to know that henceforth the heart 
you accuse of indifference is bound to your own by a tie 
'which will never break. But I beg you leave me still a 
little calm, a little coolness, leave me strength to discuss 
with myself the interests of our future, the chances of our 
happiness, the demands of a pride of which I acknowledge 
myself guilty, but of which I cannot yet consent to correct 
myself. Let me write you my conditions. If you do not 
find them reasonable, remember that you yourself do not 
always take reason for sole arbiter ; that you appear to me 
to fear but too little the eccentricities of imagination and 


388 


CLOTILDE. 


romance ; that if you are a poet I am an artist, and it ia 
not well to retain a monopoly when we aspire to have all 
things in common. 

“First, we shall wait till two entire years shall have 
passed since. I lost in the person of M. Dunoyer a friend 
and father: this will not be till the month of October. 
Then I shall retain my independence — that is, that your 
fortune will remain separate from -my poverty. I will be 
your wife, very devoted and loving, but I will never touch 
your wealth, or my part, if you persist in sharing with me, 
shall go entirely to the poor. Even should our friend 
Ermel oppose us, our contract must express this separa- 
tion clearly, and assure me no advantage of any kind 
whatever. I will always remain the humble artist, and 
I will supply my wardrobe with my pictures. If ever re- 
gret should glide into your heart, if I should surprise on 
your brow, where my tenderness will read as in a book, a 
shadow, a cloud which would tell me that you repented of 
what you had done, that I was wrong to confide in your 
love, we will part quietly, and I will leave without a mur- 
mur. I will take my slender baggage, my pencils, my 
easel and my canvas, and I will return here to the little 
house which you have reserved to me, and which will still 
speak to me of you. I will there pray for your happiness, 
I will there hoard in my memory, like a miser his treasure, 
the years, the months, the days of affection and joy which 
you will have given me. In the new circumstances into 
which you will throw your fickle imagination, should you 
meet with any wound, should your foot trip on the rough- 
ness of the road, should you need a friendly hand ever 
ready to dry your tears, not asking whence they spring, I 
will hasten at your first call; I will be there, attentive, 
happy to do you good, prompt to disappear from your 
existence when I shall become troublesome, to return when 


LIGHT 


389 


I am necessary, to remember that I am your wife when 
you would have me remember, to forget it when you 
would have me forget. 

“ And now forgive these reservations ; see in them only 
a last tribute paid to the distrust which will lessen, I am 
sure, each day that I pass with you. If the vivacity of 
your imagination alarms me a little, I have not the cour- 
age to complain, since it is that which inspires you now, 
and I find within myself the echo of all that it dictates to 
you. Who knows, moreover, if men of imagination have 
not the faculty of giving to a passing happiness, a fleeting 
love, sufficient charm, rapture and ardor to render it unjust 
to blame them when these charms fade, when these rap- 
tures are exhausted? You see I seek excuses for you in 
advance: will you prove them to be necessary? Will a 
day come when the heart that loves will love no more, when 
the hand that writes such sweet words will no longer trem- 
ble in mine? Ah, this decline, this fragility of the affec- 
tions, this destructive action of time on the feelings of man 
as on his works, I have power enough to foresee it, reason 
enough to prepare for it, but tell me not to believe in it, 
and if you wish, Charles, I will not believe. 

“ Ludovise D .” 

Charles to Ludovise. 

“Avignon, Feb. 20, 1847. 

“ I accept your conditions, or rather I complete them, 
for here are mine. 

“ Since your poverty distrusts my wealth, my wealth 
becomes hateful to me ; since you will not share it, I too 
will be poor ; since you will not consent to have all things 
in common, I am resolved that all shall be equal. 

“ I will leave my whole fortune, as heretofore, in the hands 
of our dear notary : he will use it as he sees fit. I will 
33 * 


390 


CLOTILDE. 


merely repurchase an estate which formerly belonged to my 
family, named Tavelay. We will go there during the heat 
of the summer ; then we will repair to your house at Saint 
Tropez ; and toward the end of autumn we will take our 
flight to Paris. I am determined not to touch my income 
till the moment when you have confidence and love enough 
to consent to forget that cruel distinction of thine and mine. 
In Paris, as in Provence, no one knows me, no one knows 
that I am rich ; I will, therefore, be to all the world, except 
Calixte and yourself, a poor artist, bringing to you nothing 
but love, the desire to seek an honorable living in the 
world and the firm resolution to struggle with you against 
the difficulties of life, which should be the strongest 
and most precious chain between two hearts that love. 
What a source of unknown felicity I foresee in this volun- 
tary poverty! You are an excellent landscape painter; 
you have learned your art, not in those unnatural schools 
which subject nature to academical rules, but from nature 
itself, from that ever open book which you have before you, 
whose mysterious harmonies are perpetually translated for 
you by the sun and the sea. As for me, I pretend to lit- 
erature. Since I have been here I have shown Calixte 
Ermel, the most literary of all' our notaries, some sketches, 
some reveries, some essays at romance and the drama, and 
he has greatly encouraged me; he does not think them 
altogether the prose of a millionaire. This shall be my 
baggage, as your pencils will be your dowry. Dear bene- 
factress, I shall owe you unthought-of joys, which, but for 
you, I would never have dreamed of ! I have been to see 
Tavelay ; it is a charming place, the sweetest nest that could 
be chosen by nightingales, lovers and dreamers. In sum- 
mer we will make there our arrangements of picturesque and 
literary studies. Then you shall welcome me to your home ; 
and when the fogs of November begin to dim the azure of 


LIGHT. 


391 


your sky and subdue the brilliancy of your horizon, we 
will go to Paris, to turn our labors of the summer and 
autumn to account. I feel that such is my real vocation. 
I was not formed for territorial wealth, shackled with leases, 
taxes, discussions and servitude. To love, to sing, to live 
like the bird in the sky, like it dreading cages, whether of 
gold or silver, resting a moment under the fresh, shady 
foliage, then spreading its wings to the breath of the friendly 
zephyrs, — such is true happiness for those lovers of the ideal 
whom we call poets. We will rent a pretty little apart- 
ment in some airy, lively part of Paris. We will have a 
studio where you will install your canvas, and beside your 
easel an humble table shall stand, at which I will write 
while you paint. Ludovise, my heart overflows in merely 
thinking of the delightful days we shall spend there to- 
gether, drawing mutual inspiration and courage from each 
other’s eyes ! And then, when we are satisfied, when we 
shall have worked well, when we shall have found, I a pub- 
lisher, you a purchaser, we will go with the money we will 
have made to dine gaily together, or to the Italiens to hear 
some opera of Rossini’s. I have remarked in this theatre a 
small box which contains only two seats. The last time I 
was in Paris this box w T as usually occupied by a young gen- 
tleman and lady, evidently married but a short time. How 
often I looked at them with an envious eye ! , At times, when 
the melodies rose on the tumultuous waves of the orchestra* 
when the voices of the charming singers sent a quiver of 
pleasure throughout the house, I could see a soft tear escape 
from the young lady’s long lashes, and half leaning on the 
shoulder of her companion, their hands were clasped in a 
silent pressure; and I, — I no longer heard either Julia, 
Mario or Lablache : I left the house jealous of so much 
happiness and repining with anguish against my isolation. 
Oh, now, Ludovise, I shall no longer leave, for that box 


392 


CLOTILDE. 


will be our own ; we will be there, exchanging that mute 
pressure at each of those charming melodies which give 
rhythm to the immortal melody of the heart. As nothing 
in the world will ever induce me to hoard money, and 
since, in spite of all our economical felicities, my income 
must be spent, can you not guess the use I shall make of 
it ? What happiness could equal the power of softening 
real misery by the aid of this fictitious poverty, of scatter- 
ing around our steps those riches of which we will be only the 
depositaries? What happiness like that of knowing that 
at Tavelay or Saint Tropez every beggar will have his 
day’s work and his piece of bread, whilst we too gain our 
bread by our work ? And when we learn that a painter, 
a sculptor, a musician, a poet, is in want and requires the 
obole which might be offered, but would never be asked, 
what a pleasure to enact the part of Providence to him, to 
shed beneath his roof a ray of hope and life ! This shall be 
our luxury, and this, Ludovise, you will consent to share 
with me ? Oh, my heart does not deceive itself : it enables 
me to read your own; it tells me that by these mutual 
benefits I may gradually lead you to grant what you now 
refuse ; it tells me that, consecrated by charity, my fortune 
will no longer alarm you. While waiting, my dearly be- 
loved, I thank you ! Thanks to you, I shall know all the 
pleasures of wealth, as well as those of poverty! How 
Sweet this thought! It seems to me that in making for 
me a double life it creates also two loves in one only! 
Yes, I will love you doubly, or rather my whole life 
shall be but love, gratitude, thanks. Dear companion, 
dear light shining suddenly in my isolation to dissipate 
the gloomy shadows of my past like the dawn of a beau- 
tiful day, oh, consent to be loved as no woman ever was in 
this world — loved for the happiness you give me, loved 
for the griefs from which you have saved me! Do not 


LIGHT : 


393 


weary, I beseech you, of the task which God himself assigns 
you, since he has placed you on my path, like the angels 
who, disguised in mortal shape, once stood at the angle of 
two roads to point out the way to salvation! Ludovise, 
you say that my vivid imagination, my romance, alarms you 
for the future. Nay! do not blaspheme these heavenly 
gifts ; do not misunderstand the love which mingles the per- 
fume of two hearts before God like precious incense. Give 
yourself up to be adored, to be happy! Write me that I 
may regard as overcome all the chimerical obstacles which 
my love deserves to vanquish ! Write me that should I 
dare to present myself before you, you will receive me, 
Ludovise, as your friend, as your lover, as your husband ! 

“Charles de Varni.” 

Ludovise to Charles. 

“Saint Tropez, March 4, 1847. 

“ Come ! You enrapture me. I love you, I am waiting 
for you !” 


EPILOGUE. 


D URING the few months which followed this corre- 
spondence between Charles and Ludovise, M. de 
Yarni divided his time between Avignon and Saint Tropez. 
Each day that he passed with Madame Dunoyer taught 
him to love her more, and he experienced the greater joy 
in feeling this love gradually take possession of his heart 
and entirely absorb it since it was easy for him, thanks to 
the frankness and charming simplicity of Ludovise, to un- 
derstand how truly this affection was returned. 

These were weeks and months of enchantment. When 
Charles had given several days to business, when Calixte 
Ermel, rejuvenated by happiness, had condemned his client 
to listen to some long report on business relating to his 
fortune, the happy lover took flight, and hastened to Saint 
Tropez to claim the reward for his patience and resigna- 
tion. For appearance’ sake, notwithstanding the perfect 
liberty Ludovise enjoyed, he had taken boarding in the 
town, at about five minutes’ walk from the pretty house 
Ludovise occupied ; he came to her in the morning and 
left her in the evening. 

Madame Dunoyer’s house was situated halfway up the 
hill,, and the garden was enclosed by a wall which over- 
looked the precipitous road to the town. At the corner of 
this wall there was a little green door, seldom used, for the 
regular entrance was but a few steps farthfer and higher. 
But, that Charles might be in this charming garden a few 
394 


EPILOGUE. 


395 


minutes earlier, Ludovise had reopened this door ; she had not 
given the key to M. de Varni, but by a sort of tacit agree- 
ment she was always there when he arrived, and the door 
opened of its own accord, as at the touch of a good fairy. 

Ludovise was there, at the end of an avenue of orange 
trees, at that morning hour when everything appears most 
fresh and charming, when the pearls of night still deck the 
leaves and sweet dreams still shine in the moist eyes. 
Madame Dunoyer was in light mourning ; she wore a simple 
white dress, with a long sash of black moire, which encircled 
her slender figure and fell almost to the ground. A similar 
ribbon tied her straw hat, and scarcely rivalled the smooth, 
glossy braids of her beautiful hair in blackness. Her tiny 
foot, of a Proven 9 al beauty, was encased in a kid boot 
which might have changed Cinderella’s fortune if Ramiro 
had met it on the way. 

She took Charles’ arm and led him along this avenue 
gilded with fruit and fragrant with flowers to a modest 
terrace, whence there was a magnificent view. There 
Charles found breakfast served on a little table at which 
three would have found it impossible to have breakfasted. 
Ludovise’s only domestic was a poor Smyrniote, whom 
Captain Gerard, her father, had brought back on one of 
his voyages, and who had grown old in the house, and was 
no more restraint than a dog or a piece of furniture. The 
two lovers then breakfasted t6te-a-t6te, under that bright 
sky, before them the ocean with its blue waves, which caress- 
ingly washed the hills of Var, covered with Italian pines 
and cork oaks. There Ludovise took her paper and painting 
materials; she handed part of them to Charles, and they 
repaired together to the heights, 4o choose a point of view 
which suited the lovely artist. M. de Yarni threw himself 
at her feet, lit a cigar, and with his eye fixed on his com- 
panion, abandoned himself to one of those dreamy ecstasies 


396 


CLOTILDE. 


in which the soul, gradually forgetting realities, would suffer 
in returning to the recollections of activity and life ; some- 
times he broke these long silences to say in a low tone to 
Ludovise, “ I love you !” She did not answer him, yet 
both had spoken. 

They returned to the house at sunset. Charles enjoyed 
as a poet, Ludovise as a painter, those eternal glories, that 
daily hymn of the waves as the light kissed their foamy 
tops, that solemn moment when the sun and the sea seemed 
to be absorbed one in the other, when all that was most 
splendid in the sky w&s united to all that was grandest on 
earth. Ludovise was forced to lean on Charles’ arm as they 
descended slowly the steep, uneven path. They reached the 
terrace at nightfall, and dined with a hearty appetite by 
the subdued light of the summer twilight, which always 
seems like a ray forgotten by day, like a piece of gold 
which a careless millionaire drops under his feet. After 
dinner Madame Dunoyer went alone into her parlor, the 
windows of which were open, and where, for fear of mos- 
quitoes, no light was lit. She placed herself at the piano, 
and sang in a clear, rich voice some Proven9al ballad or 
sweet romance, which was occasionally answered from the 
shore by the distant notes of some belated fisherman. 
During this time, Charles, who had remained without, 
gathered a bouquet among the shrubs or climbing plants 
with which the front was tapestried. When Ludovise had 
finished singing, she approached the window and reached her 
hand to Charles, who covered it with kisses and left his bou- 
quet in it : this was their adieu. M. de Varni then again took 
the road to Saint Tropez much more slowly than he had 
come. His flowers passed the night in a crystal vase near 
Ludovise’s bedside, and the next morning he found them 
in her belt, fresh and lovely like herself. 

The month of October drew near; it would terminate 


EPILOGUE. 


397 


Ludovise’s second year of mourning, and was the time she 
had fixed for her marriage with M. de Yarni. Charles 
left her, then, for the last time in the end of Septem- 
ber ; it was agreed between them that he should return 
a few days later with Calixte Ermel. The good notary 
had given the honor of drawing up the contract to his 
brother at Saint Tropez, and would only be present at the 
marriage as a witness and friend. On the 9th of October, 
M. de Yarni and Calixte Ermel started for Saint Tropez; 
they travelled by post, and proposed to sleep the first night 
at Toulon, and to arrive at Madame Dunoyer s the second 
day. But the weather was so fine, they found themselves 
so comfortable in their open britzska, and Charles was so 
much in love, that once at Toulon they decided to continue 
their journey, and travel all night. On leaving Hydres 
the road follows the bed of a dried torrent, almost trans- 
formed into an English garden by the enormous tufts 
of laurel, pistachio and tamarisk, which grow in natural 
avenues and thickets. “It was perhaps there that Clotilde 
■walked with her companion,” thought Calixte, “ when 
Claude Rioux, in the galley-blouse, suddenly appeared 
before them.” 

At this instant a tall man arose from the midst of one 
of those thickets of shrubs, and placing himself on the 
roadside, directed a pistol toward the carriage. 

“Charles and Calixte,” he exclaimed, “did you sup- 
pose that Simon d’Arrioules would never reappear to 
you ?” 

Quicker than lightning, Charles, who at this voice and 
this name felt more anger than fear, leaned toward one of 
the pockets of the britzska, where he had put a brace of 
pistols, to be prepared for $ny accident. By this movement 
of M. de Varni’s, who was nearest to Simon, M. Ermel wa^ 
left exposed. The latter, as if yielding to some mysterious 
34 


398 


CLOTILDE. 


instinct, turned toward M. d’Arrioules, — his shot was fired 
at that instant, and struck the notary in the breast. 

“It is just, God is good!” murmured Calixte, sinking 
back on the cushions of the carriage. 

But the report of Simon’s pistol was followed almost as 
quickly as in practicing at firearms by that of Charles, 
which wounded the former on the thigh. D’Arrioules 
fell, giving vent to curses and rage. All this passed more 
quickly than thought. 

The alarmed postilion stopped his horses. Charles, who 
in the moment of danger scarcely knew what had passed, 
sprang from the carriage ; he saw that Calixte Ermel was 
mortally wounded and his blood flowing rapidly. Simon’s 
wound seemed equally serious ; he was lying on his back 
and refused to answer, giving no sign of life but his gasp- 
ing and oppressed breathing. 

With the postilion’s assistance Charles placed D’Arri- 
oules in the carriage beside M. Ermel; not wishing to 
return to Hy&res, where he feared that the appearance of 
this singular equipage would cause remark, he directed it 
toward a farm which formed part of the estate of St. 
Eulalie. The house was so small that he was obliged to 
install Calixte and Simon, friend and enemy, in the same 
room. Then transforming the postilion into a courier, he 
sent him to Saint Tropez with a note informing Ludo- 
vise of the terrible circumstances which detained him at 
Hyeres. 

It was not till then that Charles found time to reflect on 
this tragic episode ; he turned toward Calixte, who had 
been laid as comfortably as possible on a mattrass, and 
falling on his knees at his side, he exclaimed, sobbing, 

“ You die for me !” 

Notwithstanding his cruel sufferings, Ermel’s face had 
remained peaceful and calm. 


EPILOGUE. 


399 


“ Charles,” he said, “ be comforted ; it is right that I 
should die. In me should the last expiation be made ; if 
my death saves you, it is because God has granted the 
prayer I have so often addressed to him ; we must both 
recognize his justice and adore his goodness.” 

“Calixte, my only friend, my father!” cried Charles, 
still on his knees, and covering the burning hands of the 
notary with tears. 

“ Your friend!” murmured the wounded man, with a 
smile of unutterable sweetness; “you say truly — I love 
you — but I am not alone in loving you — you know it well 
— Saint Tropez — Ludovise! — oh, I regret but one thing — it 
is that I must die without again seeing the dear child !” 

Charles bowed his head, and dared not reply ; he was 
ashamed that beside that bed of death he had felt that 
beloved name take entire possession of his heart. The 
notary looked at him, understood, and smiled again. 

“And you,” then said M*. de Varni, turning to D’Arri- 
oules, who was lying, like Ermel, on a mattrass, “ do you 
not repent? do you not ask God’s forgiveness?” 

Simon’s only reply was a savage look, in which hatred 
and despair were depicted. 

M. de Varni had sent the farmer of St. Eulalie for a 
surgeon. He arrived at the expiration of a few hours ; he 
went from one patient to the other, examined their wounds, 
ordered and prepared a dressing, then taking Charles aside 
into the embrasure of a window, said in a low tone, 
“Neither of them will live through the day.” 

It was four o’clock in the morning. Soon after, day 
dawned, pale and wan, like autumn mornings. Death was 
visibly approaching Calixte and Simon : the former was 
calm and gentle, the latter silent and sullen. A priest, 
summoned by Charles, had hastened to them. Calixte 
Ermel received all the attentions of the man of God with 


400 


CLOTILDE. 


earnest faith and pious resignation. D’Arrioules would 
neither answer nor listen. 

The day passed thus; Charles, kneeling by the notary, 
prayed with the priest ; sometimes he took Calixte’s hand, 
and kissing it, murmured, 

“ It is I who kill you !” 

“No,” answered Ermel, softly, “but I save you.” 

From time to time M. de Yarni approached Simon 
d’Arrioules, who persisted in his silence and sullenness. 

“I beseech you,” he said, “listen to this holy priest! 
Repent ! we forgive you ! All the evil you have done, may 
be annihilated by a prayer, a tear !” 

Nothing could induce D’Arrioules to break the silence; 
once only an attentive observer might have seen him shud- 
der: it was when the notary, his mind recurring to the 
past, murmured, 

“Nothing is wanting; to-day is the 10th of October, 
and we are at Hyeres ! The expiation will have the same 
date as the compact.” 

. Suddenly, D’Arrioules signed that he wished to speak. 
Charles approached him. 

“ M. de Varni,” said Simon, in a dying voice, “ for a 
year I have not lost sight of you ; I have watched your 
steps, followed your movements. I knew what drew you to 
Saint Tropez. I wished to wait, to strike you at the mo- 
ment you attained happiness, so that death might be more 
cruel to you — ” 

“ O my God !” interrupted Charles, with mournful pity, 
“ forgive this soul, urged on by a terrible fatality !” 

“Yes, I 'waited,” resumed the dying man. “I knew 
that you would have to pass here. I was informed of your 
plans, of your route. For several days I have waylaid 
your passage. Heaven or hell has placed itself between 
you and me!” 


EPILOGUE. 


401 


“Heaven!” exclaimed M. de Varni, turning toward 
Calixte Ermel. 

“I am conquered!” continued Simon, whose words, 
broken by the death-rattle, were becoming almost unin- 
telligible. “My hatred is powerless: the dark spirit of 
Clotilde yields, and is extinguished in me. Yet, Charles,” 
he added, with a frightful smile, and rousing himself with 
a last effort, “ was not Ottavia very beautiful ? Does not 
your heart retain some of the poison I instilled into it? 
Oh, remember that sovereign beauty, those brilliant eyes ! 
You cannot forget, Charles: remember Oberland.” 

At this moment the door opened, and Ludovise appeared 
on the threshold. She had received M. de Yarni’s note, 
and hastened thither without losing a second. 

“Oh, the angel of forgiveness!” said Calixte Ermel, 
turning to Ludovise with a look of heavenly joy. 

“Misery! he will have nothing to regret!” murmured 
Simon, half raising himself, then falling heavily back on 
his couch. 

A few minutes later Calixte and Simon had each drawn 
his last breath. Gently bending over Charles, Ludovise 
wept with him ; she had taken one of his hands, which she 
pressed in her own, and it was only necessary to look in 
that charming face, where even grief wore an expression 
of youth and love, to realize that the affliction M. de Yarni 
had met with on this mournful day was not one of those 
inconsolable trials, without hope or remedy, such as have 
been but too frequently met with in these Recollections of 
a Notary. 


















































































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